Wind In The Grass
by Kindle-the-Stars
Summary: Eomer/OC - a girl falls into Middle Earth, but instead of a 'joins the fellowship' story, she stays in Rohan as the trouble with Isengard and Wormtongue brews. Her knowledge is a dangerous weapon - but she has a strong protector. Full Summary inside. (Previously posted under the name I'm-Draco's-Girl)
1. Chapter 1

_**Authors note – a random idea that wouldn't get out of my head. I know it's been done before, and to be perfectly honest I don't really like reading these sorts of fics – but hey, writing can be cathartic, and this is a rather shameless Mary-Sue!**_

_**Might be continued, not sure yet – depends if the plot bunnies let me go or keep gnawing at my brain!**_

**Summary – Nicola, a girl from our world, falls into Middle Earth, landing in the middle of Rohan. Instead of joining Gandalf as he escapes Isengard and travels to Rivendell, she remains in Rohan – how can she find a place in a society that is so very different to her own, especially with trouble looming on every border? **

**And how can she give her love, knowing that her fierce protector is destined for another?**

* * *

><p><em>Prologue<em>

_Allow me, your loyal narrator, to introduce our protagonist – her name is Nicola, and she is a nineteen year old English student at university, currently home for the summer. She is also the Queen of part time work. She's done it all – bartending, waitressing, café-work, baby sitting, even cleaning – so no, she didn't have some convenient skill or super job that was going to help her out in Middle Earth, like a doctor or a karate instructor. _

_Probably the only thing she had going for her was the fact that she was a Tolkien fan, and so she knew the stories pretty well._

_Now we've read these sorts of stories before – an unwitting heroine is flung back in time or even into a whole other world, and she conveniently brings with her several small and seemingly insignificant items that somehow become highly important to the plot or even enable her to save the day. _

_This is a narrative device. Let me tell you, it doesn't happen that way. _

_When Nicky arrived Middle Earth all she had were the clothes that she stood in – no hair pins to pick locks, no examples of modern technology to prove that she was from another time, no compact mirror that could be used to flash a signal and not even a change of underwear. _

_She wasn't even wearing sensible shoes._

_No, she fell flat on her arse onto the plains of Rohan dressed in a pretty skimpy playsuit, nude tights and six inch heels. _

_All in all, not the best end to a night out in London._

* * *

><p>On the fateful night that Nicola ended up in Middle Earth she had been out with some friends. They were 'celebrating' the end of her relationship – her boyfriend of six months had broken up with her the night before, so she was being taken out to get smashed with the girls, go dancing and get hit on in order to regain her confidence.<p>

At least, that was the plan.

Instead Nicola's step-mother had lectured her when she had seen what she was wearing (which was pretty modest actually, compared to most girls out there) and then gave Nicola the silent treatment when she had refused to change.

Her friends had quickly been snapped up by guys while she was in the bathroom, so she went to the bar alone where she had a drink spilt on her. When she went to look for her friends on the dance floor she found that she was always the third wheel, since they were dancing with random blokes. A few guys sidled up to her, trying to get her to dance, but she waved them away. One of them tried to grab her and pull her against him, but she elbowed him in the stomach.

Dispirited and bored of the whole clubbing scene, Nicola headed back to the bar to get herself another drink, intending to get solidly drunk in order to forget her troubles. She did a shot, and then stared into the empty glass.

"I wish someone would take me away from all this," she muttered, and then gestured to the barman for another drink.

Giving up on the whole endeavour, she sent a generic text to her friends telling them that she was heading home. It was only a five minute walk to the house from the club, and it wasn't all that late so she wasn't too worried.

She rubbed her bare arms to warm them once she was outside the club; it was mid-September, and the air was beginning to show the first tell-tale signs of winter. In only one week she would be back at university for the autumn term.

Nicola wobbled slightly as she headed down the road, partly due to the heels and partly due to the alcohol she had consumed. She sighed, thinking about what her dad would say when she got home. He had recently remarried after her mother had walked out on them; he and her new step mother were trying for a baby, and she got the impression that they preferred it when she was away at university, so he didn't have to worry about the daughter who looked so much like his ex-wife.

The heel of her stiletto wedged itself into a crack in the pavement – unbalanced, she wind-milled her arms unsuccessfully to stop herself falling – she felt a sudden, chill wind all around her and her head felt light as she toppled towards the ground.

But instead of skinning she palms on the dirty pavement of London, she fell into soft, cool grass.

* * *

><p>Gandalf the Grey sat alone on the pinnacle of Orthanc, huddled against one of its four spires against the bitter cold as he brooded on the treachery of Saruman and the journey of the Nine into the Shire. His staff had been confiscated by his captor and he could only work small magic without it – he considered a spell to keep him warm, but decided against it, choosing to conserve his energy for an escape attempt.<p>

The single hatch in the stone opened and Saruman appeared from the steps below, his black staff in hand. He pierced him with his dark eyes, taking in his shrunken form and the moisture that dripped off the brim of his hat.

"Have you had time to reconsider your position, my old friend?" Saruman said in his melodious voice.

"I rather hoped that you had reconsidered yours," Gandalf replied. "If you are in the enemies counsel then there is much you can do to aid us. Come back to the path of wisdom, _old friend,_" he finished, mocking Sarumans endearment.

"Perhaps you need more incentive," he said, and the milky crystal set into his staff began to glow.

Wondering if Saruman would resort to torture, Gandalf wrapped his cloak closer around himself. The White Wizard advanced on him, his staff ablaze "Tell me, _friend_, if you could see the future, the end of this conflict and the rewards that follow for those who aid Sauron, would you not agree that this _is_ wisdom?"

"Not even the Elves can see the future clearly," Gandalf replied uneasily, looking into the burning crystal.

Saruman smiled manically, his face taking on a twisted appearance. "You are wrong."

He turned and raised both his staff and hand to the sky, chanting in the Old Tongue words of great power - he was reaching into the Void, an area where time and space didn't exist. This sort of magic hadn't been attempted since the Valar had cast Morgoth into his everlasting prison, and with good reason – Saruman could easily tear a hole in the universe itself.

"Cease this madness," Gandalf cried, lunging for Sarumans staff – but the Wizard simply cast him to one side and continued chanting.

A cold wind gathered around the pinnacle of Orthanc, coalescing into a swirling vortex of white light. At the centre, Gandalf thought he could see a figure materialising.

Gathering his energy, he sent out a desperate pulse of magic, disrupting Sarumans spell – the wind whipped up and the light was born quickly away over the horizon, far off towards the plains of Rohan. Gandalf collapsed, panting in exertion. The magic it had taken to divert the other Wizards spell without a staff had exhausted him. The two Wizards watched in silence as the dimming light flared suddenly brighter, before vanishing altogether.

"You _fool_," Saruman spat, rounding on Gandalf and kicking him hard in the stomach as he lay on the floor. "Do you know what you have done?"

"That magic was dangerous, experimental," he gasped, winded. "You have no way of knowing who you were bringing into our world."

"They have the necessary knowledge, that's all I need," Saruman said stubbornly, turning to the stairwell. "And I _will _find them."

* * *

><p>Eomer Eomund's son, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, was enjoying a hearty dinner at his holding of Aldburg with his fellow soldiers, having just returned that day from a routine patrol of the Mark. The Hall was loud with laughter and merrymaking, the ale flowing as he and his men ate their fill.<p>

Adhelm, his young squire, hurried down the table towards him.

"My Lord Marshal," he said, sounding slightly out of breath, "something's happened."

"Well out with it lad, what is it?" he demanded, making half the table go quiet.

"The Watchers told me to fetch you, they said something about flashes of light in the sky over the Eastfold," Adhelm explained.

Fengel chuckled. "They were spooked by lightening, no doubt."

Eomer frowned. "The skies were clear when we returned to Aldburg." He sighed and rose to his feet, abandoning his half eaten meal. "I shall go talk to the Watchers, be prepared to ride out if necessary."

Several of the men grumbled, but all set about fastening on their weapons as their Captain strode out of the Hall. Climbing the wall of the fortress, he joined a group of Watches on the balustrade.

"What did you see?" he asked directly.

Ceorl pointed out towards the dark horizon. "Faint white light, travelling at speed, before flaring brightly and coming to a stop over there," he said, mimicking the trajectory of the lights movement with his hand and indicating a spot a few leagues from Aldburg. The other Watchers nodded, agreeing with his description.

Eomer's scowl deepened. "Which direction did it come from?"

"West, my Lord," Ceorl said, his voice betraying his dissatisfaction with this fact.

"Isengard then," said Eomer rhetorically. "What new devilry is this, I wonder?" He paused, and then addressed one of the younger Watchers. "Folca, muster two dozen men, they should be preparing already. We ride out as soon as possible."

* * *

><p>Nicola looked down at her hands, noticing faint grass stains from where she had fallen. She then reached forward, still on her knees, and felt around her, half thinking she would feel the pavement under her hands, but instead there was only thick, long grass.<p>

She glanced around, but everything was dark – it was never dark in London, there was always light of some sort.

_Don't panic, _she thought._ Maybe someone slipped something into my drink. _

She reached for her bag, which had been slung over her shoulder, intending to ring her father, her friends, anyone really – but it wasn't there.

She swore under her breath. Her bag had everything in it – her phone, her keys, her ipod, her makeup – even the tiny alarm her father made her carry in case she was attacked.

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and she could see a little way around her. As far as she could tell she was in a field somewhere, but _how_ was beyond her. A cricket chirped near her feet, making her jump. For a girl who never went out of the city except for school trips and holidays, this was a little too much nature to handle.

She pinched herself hard on the arm and, when nothing happened, she slapped herself. Not a dream then.

"Hello?" she called, feeling stupid. "Is anyone there?"

There was no reply. She couldn't see any hint of a building in the darkness. Even the cricket wasn't chirping anymore.

She rubbed her bare arms, feeling the chill of the wind. Not knowing what to do, she sat down on the grass – half trying to figure out what had happened, half hoping help would come.

Laying down on her back she looked up at the sky. Instead of the burnt orange of the London skyline, the vast space above her was inky black, uninterrupted by skyscrapers and scattered with stars.

_I've never seen so many stars before, _she thought_. It looks like someone has spilt glitter on the sky._

She lay and stared upwards for a long time, trying to see if she could spot any aeroplanes, but nothing moved. Eventually, she thought she heard a faint, continuous thudding, which slowly got louder – she wasn't imagining it!

Sitting up, she listened intently as the noise got closer – it sounded almost like … hoof-beats.

Scrambling to her feet, she looked in the direction the noise was coming from. Briefly, she wondered if she should hide, but discarded the idea – there was no where really to hide in this open plain.

Someone shouted something in a strange language, and suddenly there were horses everywhere – Horses! She had only ever seen one up close once, when she had gone on a school trip to a farm, and now she was surrounded.

Belatedly, she realised hiding might have been a good idea.

Pivoting in a circle, she tried to see the riders faces, but they were all wearing strange helmets, almost medieval looking.

And they all had weapons, pointing right at her.

She gulped, and half raised her hands in the air.

One rider pushed his horse forward and said something in a foreign language – a demand, of some sort.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand," she said nervously, eying the sword he held in one hand. She still couldn't see his face in the darkness.

"A woman!" the man said in a lilting accent, half lowering his weapon. Beside him the other men shifted slightly. "What is your name?"

"Nicola," she said cautiously, relieved that he was now speaking English at least. "Who are you?"

"I am Eomer, Eomund's son, Third Marshal of the Riddermark," he said in a lilting accent. "What is your business in the Mark and why are you out at night alone?"

"Come again?" she stuttered – surely she had misheard him …

"What is your business in the Riddermark," he repeated impatiently, still not having lowered his weapon completely.

"Riddermark as in … Rohan?" she said hesitantly, still not believing what she was hearing.

"Of course," Eomer said, the scowl evident in his voice.

"Rohan as in … Middle Earth?" Nicola said in a voice that was barely more than a squeak.

"Are you a simpleton?" he demanded rudely.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "This can't be happening, this can't be happening. This is a dream, or a hallucination. Just wake up, wake up -"

"Bind her hands," Eomer's voice interrupted her. "We'll take her to Aldburg and question her there."

"What?" she said, her eyes flashing open indigently – by which time a man had already dismounted and, with brutal efficiency, grabbed her wrists to tie them.

"Hey!" she yelled, trying to jerk away from him, but he held her fast. "Let me go _right now_ -"

"A gag as well, I think," the Marshal's voice said mildly from one side.

"Don't you _dare_ – umph!" Nicola yelped as a cloth was shoved into her mouth and then tied off. She struggled, but couldn't shift the ropes at all.

Suddenly, she was lifted bodily off the ground and tossed over a mans knees – the ground was frighteningly far away, and she was practically upside down – not the best position to be in after having had several drinks that night. The horse shifted with her extra weight. She squirmed, trying to get down, half thinking she was going to be sick, and then stopped as she felt cold steel against her neck – a knife.

"I wouldn't struggle if I were you," Eomer's voice said from above her.

She forced herself to lay still, and the Marshal gave the men the order to return to a place called Aldburg. She felt Eomer rest one hand on her back, pinning her too his knees so she didn't fall. The horse was suddenly moving underneath her – she closed her eyes and just concentrated on trying to control her stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you everyone for the reviews! I wasn't expecting such a positive response and they certainly buoyed me to write more!**

**AN – I have used a little poetic licence in the location of Aldburg, which is described in the book as being to the South-East of Edoras, however in this story I have placed it to the North-East instead. **

**Gandalf's conversation with Gwaihir is almost entirely taken from the Fellowship of the Ring, aside from a few alterations.**

**Also, I have based the Hall and Eomer's room strongly on what you see in the films (I know you don't see Eomer's room, but you do see Theodreds) so imagine them while you're reading and enjoy! :p **

* * *

><p>Eomer's company rode through the night, keeping their pace at a slow trot to avoid injuring the horses in the darkness. The girl bounced on his knees with every move Firefoot made underneath them. Nicola, she had called herself - an unusual name, unheard of in the Riddermark. Eomer wasn't being gentle with her by any means, though she was no longer struggling. He thought he heard her retch once or twice when Firefoot made a particularly sudden lurch forward; the horse was in an agitated mood, not used to having two people on his back, but Eomer kept him on a short rein.<p>

They slowed to a walk when they reached Aldburg, hailing the gatekeepers who quickly let them through. Aldburg was one of the few towns in the Mark that was fully surrounded by stone walls nearly the height of two men, while other settlements made do with reinforced wooden fences. The town was silent as they wove their way through the houses; it was the dark hours before dawn when no one was yet stirring, though in the East the sky was starting to lighten.

Aldburg was on a similar scale to Edoras, but was more practical than spectacular. Years ago, the Hall had been the original home of Eorl the Young, but now Edoras stood as the capital. King Theoden had granted Eomer the lordship of Aldburg upon his coming of age, as well as the Muster of the Eastfold when he had been promoted to Third Marshal, a title he hard earned after many hard years patrolling the Riddermark.

The Hall largely stood empty most of the time, its main occupants being the Riders that were constantly coming and going on patrol, rarely staying for long periods. However, in times of need or celebration it could accommodate nearly the whole town, much like the fortress of Helms Deep.

The Riders reached the courtyard that stood before the doors to the Hall and started to dismount. Eomer pushed the girl off his knees so that she slid down Firefoot's flanks and landed precariously on her feet, unable to steady herself with her tied hands.

In the light cast by the lanterns that flanked the doors, Eomer was able to see his prisoner properly for the first time.

His eyes slid first down her body, taking in the scandalously short black dress she was wearing. It clung to her slim figure, coming to just above her knees and leaving the rest of her legs bare. Her shoes were unusual, raised at the heel to give her a few inches extra height – not that it did her much good, she still barely cleared his shoulder. He lingered on her hips and breasts, their shape clearly revealed by her clothing. The women of the Mark were generally tall and slender, making this smaller, more curvaceous girl an oddity.

As he raised his gaze to her face he was met by a pair of doe-like brown eyes that stared up at him half fearfully, half accusing. Strangely, her eyelids were tinted a slivery-purple, giving her eyes a shadowy appearance that was accentuated by her surprisingly dark lashes. She had been crying, he noticed straight away, her tears leaving black tracks on her cheeks. She reminded him of a water-painting that had been carelessly smudged.

"I'm taking her inside for questioning. Winfred, see to Firefoot," he ordered one of his Riders, most of whom were now staring at the girl with undisguised astonishment and suspicion.

Wrapping one hand around her upper arm, Eomer marched her towards the door of the Hall. She gave a muffled squeak through the gag and had to practically run to keep up with him, her shoes clattering with every step.

He felt her pause as they entered the Hall, but gave her no opportunity to look around, half dragging her through a side door until they reached the guardroom, normally used for the Watchers when they were on duty. He roughly spun her round and shoved her into a chair, eliciting another faint yelp as she stopped herself from falling.

Cutting her bonds with a small knife from his boot, he quickly freed her hands, only to yank them behind the chair and retie them before she even had a chance to twitch. He then untied the gag, the backs of his fingers brushing her cheeks.

She spluttered slightly when he pulled the material from her mouth and then coughed. Eomer saw her swallow a few times and lick her dry lips. Moving around her, he picked up a half drunk wineskin from the table and wordlessly offered it to her, knowing her throat would be equally dry.

She turned her head haughtily away, refusing to look at him.

Eomer shrugged his shoulders, removed his helmet and took a gulp of the wine himself. He pulled up a chair opposite her and took a seat. He then drew Guthwine, his sword, and laid it across his knees – an unspoken threat.

She gulped nervously and closed her eyes.

"So, _Nicola_," he said, allowing the strange name to roll off his tongue. "How did you come to be in Rohan?"

The girl didn't reply, keeping her eyes closed and her head bowed. Her dark brown hair was falling over her face. It was cut unusually short, only just brushing her shoulders, with a fringe hanging almost into her eyes.

"Speak!" he said sharply, making her flinch.

"Don't interact, don't interact," she muttered softly to herself. "It's just a hallucination."

"You think that I am a hallucination?" he gathered, frowning at the abnormal girl – perhaps she truly was touched in the head.

Once again, she didn't reply, keeping her eyes scrunched tightly closed.

With a bite of impatience, he stood up and moved behind her once more. Without giving her any warning, he seized a handful of her hair and yanked her head sharply backward, forcing her to look up into his face. "Does that feel like a hallucination to you?"

"… No," she said in a strangled voice, her eyes stark and fearful.

"That's better," he said, releasing her hair, absently noticing how soft it was as it ran through his fingers. "Now, let's try again." He sat down facing her once more. "How did you come to be in Rohan?"

"I honestly don't know," she whispered, her face beseeching. "It's not _possible_. Middle Earth doesn't exist."

"And what makes you think that?" he asked, eying her dubiously, every word she said strengthening his conviction that she was a simpleton.

"It's a fictional place, it _can't _exist."

He tapped his fingers on the hilt of Guthwine, and decided to humour her a little further. "And where are _you_ from, if not Middle Earth?"

"_Normal_ Earth," she said, leaning forward in her chair as far as her bonds would allow. "England, London – would you like my full address?" she added, a hint of sarcasm entering her voice for the first time.

He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head very slightly towards her, as if acknowledging her for this fantastical story. "I have never heard of these places before."

"Of course not," she muttered, her gaze on her feet.

Eomer allowed the silence to stretch out between them – an effective tactic for making people talk, he had found. He took the time to simply observe her as she stared at the floor, waiting for her to speak. The girl did not disappoint; after a long moment she peeked up at him, her expression a peculiar mixture between wonder and doubt.

"There is no way this can be real," she said softly. "_You _can't be real."

He leaned forward so that he was only a few inches from her face, and said equally softly, "I think you're lying, this is simply some devilry from Isengard."

She frowned at him, seeming unperturbed by his close proximity. "You think Saruman is behind this?"

Eomer smirked triumphantly and allowed himself to recline back in his chair, knowing he had scored a point against her. "And how do you know of Saruman if none of this is real?"

Nicola rolled her eyes. "It's a _story, _you're_ characters_."

"And am I in this story?" he asked, curious in spite of himself. She nodded carefully in reply. "What do you know of me?"

She tilted her head to one side, seemingly thinking hard. "You are Eomer, a warrior and nephew to Theoden who took you in when your parents died. You have a cousin called Theodred and a sister called Eowyn -"

She was cut off by the tip of Guthwine pointing into the tender skin below her chin.

"You did ask," she pointed out, looking too scared to move.

Eomer was breathing heavily, trying to control his anger – these were all facts that could easily be found out by mortal means, but he still did not like the idea of Saruman knowing about Eowyn, a potential weakness that could be used against him.

"Saruman's spies are well informed, I see," he said, removing the sword from her neck and turning away from her, staring unseeingly at the wall of the guardroom.

"I am not a spy," she said plainly.

"I don't believe you," he spat back, still not looking at her.

He heard footsteps in the corridor, followed by a hurried knock. His squire, Adhelm opened the door and peered inside. "My lord, you are needed in the Hall."

Eomer nodded sharply, dismissing him. Sheathing his sword once more, he turned to face Nicola who was now looking up at him with the smallest trace of defiance instead of fear. "I shall return when you are in a more … _cooperative_ mood."

* * *

><p>For a long time Gandalf lay where he had fallen after Saruman had struck him, simply looking at the stars and gradually recovering his strength. Performing the level of magic it had taken to disrupt Saruman's spell had severely weakened him, he only hoped it hadn't been in vain.<p>

Eventually, he pulled himself to his feet and begun to circle the pinnacle of Orthanc, trying to stop the cold from leeching into his bones. Every so often he stared into the East, towards Rohan, as he considered his actions. Disrupting the spell had been dangerous, only marginally less so than what Saruman had attempted – he had not stopped Saruaman's magic, only diverted its focal point, meaning that there was someone from beyond the Void in Middle Earth.

The only proverbial silver lining was that Saruman could not access this persons knowledge.

Dawn was near approaching when out of the West behind him their came a harsh cry. Turning swiftly, he saw the silhouette of an Eagle against the setting moon. As he flew closer Gandalf recognised him as Gwaihir the Windlord, greatest and swiftest of the Eagles. He raised a hand and waited, the faintest of hopes kindling in his heart.

The Eagle alighted on one of the four spires of Orthanc and gazed down at Gandalf with a great yellow eye.

"Greetings Gandalf," the Eagle said, ruffling his feathers. "Radagast the Brown bade me come to Orthanc to deliver messages of great importance to yourself and Saruman the White."

"Alas, Saruman has betrayed the White Counsel," Gandalf reported. "He lured me here under false pretences and then revealed his true colours. I am a prisoner here."

"This is treachery indeed, though I can aid you my friend," Gwaihir said, descending to the flat of the pinnacle. "Climb on my back, and I shall bear you away."

Within moments Gwaihir was airborne, ascending on an up-draft away from Isengard. Gandalf kept one hand on his hat to stop it blowing away, the other grasping lightly in Gwaihir's feathers, the wind whipping his beard and robes. He turned his head to look back at the summit upon which he had been prisoner for so many days, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"How far can you bear me?" he asked the Eagle.

"Many leagues," he replied. "But not to the ends of the earth. I was sent to bear tidings, not burdens."

"Then I must have a steed on land, and a steed surpassingly swift, for I have never had such a need of haste before."

"Then I shall bear you to Edoras, where the Lord of Rohan sits in his Hall, for that is not very far off," Gwaihir said.

"No, wait!" Gandalf cried, thinking of Saruman's magic. "Bear me East, to Aldburg – I must ask the Riders of the Eastmark to take on a task of great importance," he said; he knew he didn't have the time to search for the recipient of the magic, and so he decided to delegate this task to the Riders of Rohan.

Gwaihir wordlessly tilted his wing, changing his direction from South-East to East.

"Are the Men of Rohan still to be trusted, do you think?" Gandalf asked, his faith having been shaken by Saruman's treachery.

"They pay a tribute of horses, and send many yearly to Mordor, or so it is said; but they are not yet under the yoke," Gwaihir told him.

"No, I do not believe that to be true," he said with conviction. "The Rohirrim love their horses next to their own kin – they would not willingly send them to Mordor."

"But if Saruman has become evil, as you say, then their doom cannot long be delayed," Gwaihir said.

Gandalf didn't reply, and the two flew onwards into the approaching dawn.

* * *

><p>Eomer stepped out into the corridor, where Adhelm was waiting for him. "My lord, Gandalf the Grey has arrived. He urgently requests an audience with you," his squire informed him.<p>

He nodded sharply to hide his surprise, wondering if Gandalf would be able to share any insight into the strange lights they had seen last night and Nicola's arrival. He gestured to the door. "Stand guard here, I will see him immediately."

Heading straight to the Hall from the guardroom, he found Gandalf standing before the hearth in the centre of the spacious room, holding his hands out towards the fire. The Hall was set out much like Edoras, though on a smaller scale and lacking a principal seat since Eomer usually sat with his men. Several of his Riders were seated at tables to one side, warming up after riding through the night.

He hesitated for the briefest moment, taking in Gandalf's unusually haggard appearance and dripping robes, but when the Wizard turned to face him he hastened forward and clasped the old mans shoulder.

"Eomer, I am glad to see you," Gandalf said, sounding tired.

"You look exhausted Gandalf, will you not come and sit down?" he offered.

"Nay, thank you but I have no time for rest. Is there somewhere private we can talk?" the Wizard asked, casting an eye over to where his men were seated.

"Of course." Eomer led Gandalf from the Hall through a different door towards his private quarters, which were in an area of the building that was mainly disused. The room was large and generously furnished with several wall hangings depicting the flags of Rohan and the Eastmark. The principal feature was a large, carved wooden bed that was covered with furs, though there was also a chest of draws, a stand for his armour and a table that could seat four.

Eomer waved him into a seat and poured the Wizard a glass of wine from the bottle he hadn't finished the day before, which was still on the table.

"I have little time for conversation, so I fear I must speak briefly." Gandalf took a single, fortifying sip before setting the drink down. "I have bad news Eomer, though I believe you have long suspected the truth of these tidings. Saruman has openly moved against us, declaring himself an enemy. For the past several days I have been a prisoner at Isengard, until I was able to make my escape last night."

Eomer exhaled a deep breath, staring hard at the wooden grain of the table. "I did indeed suspect this to be the case, though it is bitter news to have it confirmed."

"I will ride straight to Edoras from here to speak with Theoden, though I fear I will not be able to convince him to take the proper steps against Saruman," Gandalf said, before leaning forward and piercing Eomer with his gaze, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. "However, there is a favour I would ask of you, Eomer Eomundson."

"Name it," he said.

"While I was in Isengard Saruman attempted a feat of highly dangerous magic," the Wizard explained. "He intended to bring someone though the Void, thinking they have knowledge of the future. I was able to divert his spell, but it is possible that this _person_, I do not know who they are, materialised in the Eastfold. I have no time to search for them myself, so I must ask that your patrols undertake this task. It is _imperative_ that they must be found, and that they are kept safe from Saruman."

Eomer blinked at him in shock, and then cleared his throat. "This magic, did it produce lights in the sky last night?" he asked, wanting to confirm his suspicion.

"Yes, it did," Gandalf said. "I believe the light settled somewhere over the Eastfold, which would become the focal point for Saruman's magic."

"Then I believe I can do you one better than simply finding this person – I already have her here, in Aldburg." For the first time Eomer saw Gandalf completely astonished, and so he elaborated. "My watchers saw the lights last night and I rode out with a company of men. We discovered a young woman, strangely dressed and disoriented. We returned to Aldburg less than half an hour ago and since then I have been questioning her. She claims she is not from this world and does not believe us to be real."

The Wizards quickly overcame his shock and leapt to his feet. "Take me to her."

* * *

><p>Nicola squirmed in her seat, trying to slip her hands free of the ropes that tied her wrists. The room she was being kept in was small, with only one tiny window set high into the wall, through which she had been able to watch the sky lighten from the dark blue of early morning before the sun rises, to the pale violets, oranges and blues of the dawn. The room contained only a table, a few chairs and a counter that ran the length of one wall. There were several pans, bottles and metal tankards scattered on the counter; Nicola thought she could use one of the heavier pans as a weapon, if only she could free her hands – not that she would know what to do if she were to escape the room, but she would feel better armed after Eomer had held her at sword point. He had left her some time ago, with the rather ominous threat that he would soon return to question her.<p>

Eomer of Rohan was not anything like the books had led her to believe. She had always imagined him as a noble warrior, one of the _good guys_, not this mammoth of a man who had manhandled and threatened her.

When she had first seen him, on horse back and in the dark, she hadn't been able to make out his features or height; though after being slung over his lap like a sack of flour, taken on a jaunt to a medieval looking fortress and then unceremoniously shoved off his horse, the lights from beside the door had illuminated his features.

He had been tall – _very_ tall. In her heels she was almost six foot, though he still had more than a few inches on her. The dark red armour he had been wearing made him look broad and muscular, reminding her of the padded clothing American footballers wore.

The light had caught his eyes, revealing them to be deep greyish-green. His long, slightly matted hair was dark blond, the same colour as his beard. He had looked to be in his late twenties.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor interrupted her wool-gathering. Nicola stopped struggling, not wanting to look like she had been trying to escape. Straightening her back, she tried to appear confident and unafraid.

An old, wizened man entered the room, followed by Eomer. The man was wearing drab grey clothing that looked worn through and was dripping at the hem. He carried a crooked, pointed hat in one gnarled hand and was looking at her intently, though most of his face was obscured by a vast beard and bushy grey eyebrows.

Nicola knew instantly who this was.

"Good morning," the Wizard said, lowing his bent form into the chair Eomer had previously occupied.

She smiled at him. "You must be Gandalf."

"Indeed," he said, sounding unsurprised at her knowledge. "And who might you be, my dear?"

"Nicola."

"Pleasure to meet you." He frowned, and turned to address Eomer. "Why have you bound her hands?"

Eomer was standing behind Gandalf, taking up half the room with his broad-shouldered bulk. He had been watching her intently, this time with less suspicion and more curiosity in his gaze. Gandalf's voice roused him. "I thought she might be dangerous."

"Dangerous? Yes, certainly, very dangerous – not so dangerous, however, that she needs to be tied to a chair in the presence of a Wizard and one of Rohan's greatest warriors," Gandalf said mildly.

Wordlessly, Eomer moved around them and knelt behind her, quickly freeing her hands with a quick snick of his knife. Examining her skin, Nicola lightly traced a finger around the angry red marks that encircled her wrists. She wondered what the Wizard had told Eomer to make him not question this gesture of trust towards her.

"The very fact that you recognised me on sight just proves that you are beset with dangers," Gandalf continued. He leant forward, in almost grandfatherly fashion. "Now then, Eomer tells me you don't believe any of this to be real."

"In my world this is just a story," Nicola explained once again. "At first I thought I was dreaming or hallucinating – though meeting you just about proves that this isn't the case."

"Quite," the Wizard said, sounding amused. "And to what, may I ask, does this story pertain?

Nicola paused for a moment, thinking about her mother reading her the Hobbit as a bedtime story when she was little, and then later reading Lord of the Rings herself when she was older. There was the excitement and anticipation when each film had come out, dragging either her father or her less-than-willing friends to see them with her. She then remembered finding the small Tolkien section in her local library, devouring the lesser known books one summer a few years ago.

"Well, there are several books, the oldest relating to the Silmarils, I think," she said hesitantly. "Though the story I am most familiar with is more about … current affairs."

"By that I gather you mean the growing power in Mordor," Gandalf ventured, his protruding eyebrows low over his eyes. "How much do you know?"

"A lot," she deadpanned.

"Then say no more, it is dangerous even for me to catch a glimpse of the future," the Wizard said firmly.

"If you don't mind me asking, where abouts am I in the story?" Realising how inane her question sounded, she rephrased. "That is, what events have happened recently?"

"Is my imprisonment in Isengard part of your tale?"

"You've only just escaped," Nicola surmised, realising she was very near the start.

"Indeed," the Wizard said, his eyes drawn upwards to the small window in the room. "I trust I do not need to stress the sheer importance of the knowledge you hold. In the wrong hands it could be devastating."

"Oh I know, I could change everything," she said fervently, thinking of the damage she could cause. "But … could you not just send me home? That way there would be nothing to worry about."

Gandalf's head lowered and for the first time she noticed just how tired and gaunt he looked. When he spoke, his voice was full of genuine regret. "Alas, I lack both the strength and the ability. I am afraid, Nicola, that you are stuck here for the present."

She gaped at him, unable to comprehend _staying_ in Middle Earth, especially during the War of the Ring. "But … I have a family and friends! I've got a job, a university place – I'm starting my dissertation soon – I can't just _vanish_!"

Gandalf gazed at her solemnly, immune to the high pitched note of panic that had entered her voice. "I am sorry."

"What am I even supposed to _do _here?"

"You have two choices before you," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "You can either join me as I journey North, or you can stay in Rohan under Eomer's protection."

There was a surprised splutter from behind her – she had almost forgotten about Eomer, looming over her chair, listening to the whole conversation. Gandalf ignored his noise of indignation.

"I must warn you," he continued, "if you chose to come with me, the journey will be quick and rough. I cannot guarantee your safety.

"Neither can I," Eomer interjected, affronted by the Wizard's assumption. "Gandalf, you cannot expect me to -"

"I'll stay in Rohan," she interrupted instantly, surprising them all.

"_What?_" Eomer hissed, the helpless incredulity of one who has lost all control of a situation ringing in his voice.

It had taken scarcely a second for her to decide – in following Gandalf she would probably encounter the Ringwraiths, which had scared her considerably the first time she had watched the films. Also, if she were to join the Fellowship she would have to travel through Moria, fighting orcs and even seeing the Balrog – no, Rohan was definitely the safer option.

"The story I know follows Frodo," she explained to Gandalf. "If I come with you we will meet up with him, and I might accidentally change something."

"A wise decision," Gandalf said, the faintest hint of a twinkle in the depths of his eyes. "And though it gladdens my heart to know I will indeed find Frodo, you must not reveal your knowledge of the future so candidly! You must keep as much to yourself as possible."

"Oh, sorry – I mean yes, I understand," she said, feeling chastised.

Shifting his gaze to over her shoulder, Gandalf addressed Eomer again. "Aside from the three of us, who else knows of Nicola's origins?"

"No one. I rode out with a small company, only twenty four men and myself. All they know is that we found a strange woman on the plains. I questioned her alone."

"Can these men be trusted?"

"Without a doubt, they have sworn oaths to both lord and lands."

"Very well," Gandalf said musingly, appearing to be thinking quickly. "Let them know a little of the truth to satisfy their curiosity and settle any suspicion regarding Nicola, but keep the fact that she has knowledge of the future to yourselves. Her presence must not become common knowledge, lest news of her location finds its way back to Saruman. Believe me, he is already seeking her."

The Wizard gazed at them both, and then stood abruptly. "And now, I must depart. If you have any further questions, you must ask them as we head to the doors."

Eomer and Nicola both let out noises of shock.

"You're leaving? Already?" Eomer asked incredulously.

"I am afraid I must, I am in the greatest need of haste," Gandalf said, halfway out of the door with Eomer following. Nicola too leapt to her feet and trailed after the two men, pausing only to slip off her heels and carry them as she half jogged in the wake of their long-legged strides. "Eomer, is there a horse I can borrow until I reach Edoras?"

"Certainly – but are you sure of this Gandalf?" he asked as they reached the side door that led to the Hall.

"You are a strong warrior Eomer, I know I can trust you to protect her," he replied, accepting no argument.

"But there is still so much I don't understand," Nicola piped up with, ignoring the urge to gaze around the Hall in wonder. "How did I even get here in the first place?"

"Ah, now that was Saruman's doing, he attempted to summon a seer, of sorts, but I disrupted his magic. A bitter blow for him, and a fortunate advantage for us."

"Gandalf, would she not be safer in Gondor, away from Saruman?" Eomer implored.

"And closer to Mordor? No, I think not."

They had reached the doors of the Hall, which stood open to greet the morning sun. Gandalf turned at the threshold and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "I am sorry, I know that I have left the pair of you alone with a dangerous path to walk in the dark, but there is so much at stake and I simply cannot afford to linger here – Eomer, a horse?"

"There is a chestnut gelding in the fourth stall to the right," Eomer said, sounding resigned. "Tell the stable-hand in Edoras to send him back with Erkenbrand's eorde when he comes in two weeks."

"Thank you, Eomer Eomundson," he said, and then turned to Nicola. "Tell me one thing, my dear. Do we have hope?"

She bit her lip and slowly nodded.

"In that case, farewell and good luck to you both." He squeezed their shoulders tightly for a second, and then hurried down the steps and into a large building that Nicola assumed was the stables.

She and Eomer waited silently at the entrance to the Hall, watching from their high vantage point as the Wizard emerged from the stables and cantered down towards the gates, spurring the horse to gallop across the plains as soon as he was clear of the town.

"Well that was -"

"Abrupt," Eomer interrupted, still watching Gandalf ride away.

"Yes." Nicola wrapped her arms around herself, feeling chilly in her rather skimpy clothing now that she was outside again. "He turned my world upside down and then just _left_," she said, still half in a state of disbelief.

"You could have gone with him," he stated, squinting into the distance.

"I know … I probably should have."

Eomer turned to face her, his eyes dropping sharply when he realised she was actually several inches further down than he had expected her to be. With her heels dangling from one hand, the top of her head was about level with his chest.

"Why didn't you?" he asked with a frown.

She was silent for a minute, considering her motives for staying. It had been fear that had urged her to stay in Rohan, but in hindsight the events of the Fellowship of the Ring were a known element that she could have dealt with, whereas Rohan was not exactly safe, with a Wizard who was now openly moving against the country whilst apparently seeking her and the knowledge of the future she held.

Realising that Eomer was still waiting for a reply, she worded her answer so he wouldn't think she was a coward. "You heard what I told Gandalf, I could change everything."

"Not necessarily for the worst," he pointed out pragmatically.

She pursed her lips as guilt pricked her – had she gone with Gandalf, would she have been able to save him from falling into the abyss, or even prevented Boromir's death? But no, these things had to happen so the story could continue – she _had_ to keep things the way they were.

"There is no way to tell the impact a single change could make," she eventually answered. "It's not worth the risk."

There was a long silence between them, the kind bordering on awkward when neither party quite knows what to say. Eventually Eomer waved a hand, gesturing that they should re-enter the Hall.

Finally able to look around, Nicola gazed at the vast room. Almost everything was made of wood. There were sets of tables and benches on either side of the main walkway, interspersed with great supporting pillars that were inlayed with carvings and sculpted leathers. Squinting upwards, she noticed that the rafters were similarly carved, with a flared sun as a repeated motif. There were windows set high in the walls, casting pools of light on the floor. In the centre of the hall was a grate set into the stone floor, in which a fire blazed merrily.

Several men were seated at the tables, all of them looking at Nicola with a mixture of suspicion and what could only be described as a rather frank appraisal of her body. Clearly these men were unused to seeing a woman dressed in so little clothing. For the first time ever she felt self-conscious in her clubbing clothes. When Eomer stopped at the hearth to warm his hands she placed herself so that his body was blocking the men from her sight.

"Since you are going to be here for some time we will put you to work," Eomer said bluntly, startling her from her insecure musings.

"What?"

"Did you expect we would feed and house you for free?" he said sceptically. "No, you must earn your bread and board." His eyes flicked quickly up and down her body, somehow making her feel more ill at ease with that single glance than the stares of all the men at the table put together. "You will also need clothes if you are to be inconspicuous. That can be dealt with later though, for now we need to find you a position. I believe there are several farms in the vicinity that could use an extra pair of hands, one of them is sure to have a spare room."

"But I don't know the slightest thing about farming," she said honestly – she had only ever been to a farm once in her life, on a school trip in which they had walked around looking at the animals, and then ridden in the back of a trailer pulled by a tractor.

Eomer scowled at her – a habitual facial expression for him, it seemed. "Can you weave?"

"No."

"Sew?"

"Not really."

"Tend to animals?"

"What would that involve?" she asked cautiously, sensing his rising impatience.

"Milking cows, gathering eggs, cleaning out pens, butchering the meat -"

"God no!"

"Can you even ride a horse?" he asked, visibly straining to keep his temper in check. Her sheepish silence was enough of a reply, and based on his disgusted expression this was a major failing in a person. "What _can_ you do, girl?"

She raised her chin slightly – she was the Queen of temp-jobs and her CV was as long as her arm. Admittedly most of her qualifications would go above his head, but she did have _some _skills. "I can serve food and drink, clean, look after children, I am trained in basic first aid and I can even do a little bit of cooking."

"What is this 'first aid'?"

"Mostly dealing with minor injuries."

Eomer regarded her carefully for a moment, and then appeared to come to a decision. "Very well, I will put you to work in Aldburg itself. You can work in the kitchens and help serve meals – it's probably best that I can keep an eye on you anyway. I'll take you down there now and you can start with breakfast."

"Now?" she groaned, not wanting to do anything immediately, feeling exhausted having been awake all night – not to mention travelling between worlds and having her entire life turned on its head.

"Do you serve breakfast at a different time in your world?" he asked in a tone so condescending that Nicola clenched her jaw and counted to ten before speaking, making a conscious effort to keep her voice even and controlled.

"Where can I find the kitchen?"


	3. Chapter 3

**AN – Thank you once again for all the lovely reviews – and those of you who added to favourites without reviewing, I've got my eye on you!**

* * *

><p>Eomer gestured towards a door at the end of the Hall that led to the Domestics wing, faint amusement at Nicola's furious expression taking over his brief flash of temper. His ire had steadily risen as she had turned down job after job, either being unable or unwilling to do them, before finally admitting to being able to do the basic tasks of a Domestic.<p>

She turned on her heel, cutting off her own glare and striding barefoot towards the door he had indicated, her heeled shoes dangling from one hand. He followed behind her, allowing his gaze to briefly drift downwards to her bare legs and the swish of her hips as she walked – he was a man, after all, and while this girl might be strange and potentially irritating her body was surprisingly curvaceous.

She hesitated after passing the door, not sure of the way. He pushed past her, forcing her to fall into step behind him and continued down the short corridor to the kitchen.

Dernhild, his house-keeper, was bustling around the medium sized room, ordering the two serving wenches around in a sharp tone. The room was constantly hot, heated by the large cooking fire despite the open windows. Copper pots and pans gleamed from the walls and the smell of baking bread permeated the air, coming from the large clay oven that stood in one corner. He rarely came in here anymore, though when he did it reminded him of sneaking into the kitchens as a boy to beg the elderly housekeeper for a treat before dinner.

"Good morning, my lord," one of the girls trilled, a flirtatious smile on her lips. Leofwyn, he thought her name was, though he couldn't be sure. The young girl looked to be about fifteen, though she was aware of her growing womanly charms and determined to test them on any man. She purposefully brushed past him on her way out the door as the two serving wenches headed to the Hall, each of them holding a wooden board bearing food in their hands.

"What in Bema's name are you doing in here, boy?" Dernhild demanded in Rohirric, busy kneading a stiff batch of dough for rye-bread on the table in the centre of the kitchen.

"I've bought you a new kitchen maid," he responded, also using the native tongue. He was aware of Nicola behind him, looking around the room with interest.

"I don't need another maid," Dernhild said, not even glancing up. "Take her away and give her work elsewhere."

"I have to insist," Eomer said, reaching behind him to drag Nicola forward.

Dernhild looked up for the first time and saw Nicola. Her shrewd gaze took in her black streaked face, her revealing clothing and her bare feet. She scowled deeply. "Let me guess, you got the wench pregnant and agreed to give her a new position?"

"Certainly not," he said, highly affronted. "The matter is more … delicate than that."

"How so?" Dernhild asked, her hands still working away at the bread.

"The girl is under my protection and will be for some months," he explained. "I want her to have work in Aldburg so I can keep a close watch on her."

"Not from around here, is she?" she pointed out, her tone highly suspicious. "Her tears are black, and she's dressed like a whore."

"Nevertheless, she will stay here."

Dernhild grunted, displaying her displeasure of the situation. "I suppose you want me to find her a room as well?"

"Yes, but I'll deal with that later since I don't know where to put her yet," he said, realising he would have to put some thought to the issue of her accommodation. "So, will you take her on?"

"Don't have much choice in the matter, do I?" she mumbled. "Though if she doesn't work hard, I'll get rid of her."

"Fine," Eomer agreed, plucking an apple off the counter and polishing it against his tunic.

"She'll need new clothes," Dernhild pointed out, throwing another dirty look at Nicola, who was following their foreign conversation with bewildered incomprehension. "I won't have her parading around the Hall dressed like that, your dear departed mother would have had a fit."

"I know. Again, I will deal with that later."

"Alright," she said, abandoning her kneading and bracing both hands on the table to glare at him. She had never hesitated to take him to task whenever he had misbehaved in his youth, a trait which had failed to disappear when he had reached adulthood "Now then, what was this I heard about you leading a patrol in the middle of the night?"

"A matter arose that required our attention," Eomer with deliberate vagueness, purposefully not looking at Nicola.

Dernhild grumbled. "Abandoning the dinner I slaved over to go gallivanting off in the darkness. Could have hurt the horses." She glared at him. "And I suppose you haven't had a bite to eat all morning, have you?"

He took a deliberate bite of the apple, which made a satisfying crunch.

For the first time all morning, he thought he saw the faintest hint of a smile pulling at Dernhild's mouth. "Away with you boy," she snapped affectionately. "Go sit down and I will have some food bought out. And you girl," she said, rounding on Nicola, "finish kneading those loaves."

"She doesn't speak Rohirric," Eomer pointed out. "She wants you to knead the loaves," he added to Nicola in Westron, who surprisingly didn't argue with him. Instead she nodded and moved around the table to where Dernhild had left the dough.

"What am I supposed to do with a girl who doesn't speak any Rohirric?" Dernhild demanded, renewing her glares in Nicola's direction.

"You _do _speak Westron," he said pragmatically.

Dernhild snorted. "Why shouldn't I speak our native tongue in the middle of our land, in the Hall built by Eorl himself?"

"To communicate with your staff?" he suggested.

Again, the corner of her mouth pulled up. "Out of my kitchen," she ordered, and then glanced at Nicola. "I'll make sure the girl knows what she's doing."

"My thanks, Dernhild," he said seriously, knowing the house-keeper _could _have refused if she had wanted too despite her protestations of having no choice. He gave Nicola a fleeting look and switched to Westron so that they would both understand him. "I'll be in the Hall."

* * *

><p>Nicola watched him go, her hands busy kneading the stiff dough. She stifled a yawn, wondering vaguely when she might see a bed again. She couldn't believe Eomer had put her to work straight away, without even giving her so much as ten minutes to adjust to the idea of life in Rohan. Right now, the thought of her most comfortable animal-print pyjamas, a duvet and several pillows seemed like the most appealing thing in the world – as well as the most distant.<p>

The kitchen he had led her too was easily the strangest she had ever been in, not to mention the most primitive. Instead of ceramic tile and stainless steel surfaces she was used too, there was a wooden counter and table, with cool flagstones under her feet. In fact, the kitchen had a similar layout to the guard-room she had been in not long ago, only larger. The walls were covered with hooks, upon which various pots and pans were hanging. There were also several bundles of herbs dangling from the ceiling. A huge fire, currently heating a large pot, and a clay oven seemed to be the only cooking facilities in the room.

As Eomer had spoken to the elderly woman, who she hadn't actually been introduced to, Nicola had shifted her gaze from one person to the other, trying to make sense of the strange, guttural language they were speaking. She had the distinct impression that they had been discussing her, and based on the dirty looks the woman was giving her, she hadn't made a favourable impression.

The woman looked to be in her early sixties, her hair more grey than blonde. She was tall and stocky, her bulk pushing against the confinement of the long dress and apron she wore. There was a layer of fat just under her chin, making her jowls quiver as she and Eomer had chatted away. Her countenance was stern and, based on the judgmental looks she had received, Nicola got the impression that this was not a woman to be crossed.

She was pleased she hadn't forgotten the technique for kneading dough, having made fresh bread in a café she had worked at once. The brown dough was rough under her fingers, filled with small seeds that abraded her hands. She cleared her throat nervously. "I'm Nicola," she said, trying to introduce herself.

The woman, who was stirring the pot over the large fire, scarcely looked at her, not acknowledging her introduction in any way.

She tried again, "Nicola," she said firmly, pointing to herself.

"Dernhild," the woman grunted in reply, tasting the contents of the pot.

"Pleased to meet you," she muttered under her breath, sensing that she wasn't going to get much conversation out of this woman. There was a long silence, broken only by the Dernhild's occasional muttering and the clanging as she pottered around the kitchen. Nicola suppressed another yawn.

The two serving girls came back in, both of them giggling and carrying stacks of empty boards – it appeared they didn't use plates in Rohan. They both looked younger than Nicola, with pale blond hair, slim figures and long gowns. The one who had been flirting with Eomer was chattering happily away to the other girl, but they stopped when they saw Nicola at the table, kneading the bread.

The girl asked Dernhild, who Nicola assumed was a cook or housekeeper of some sort, a question in that incomprehensible language and gestured towards Nicola. The elderly lady grumbled a reply and she thought she heard Eomer's name mentioned.

The girls whispered to each other as they gathered more of the wooden boards laden with food to take out, both of them casting curious glances at Nicola. She did her best to ignore them and concentrated on her dough.

Dernhild had finished with the large pot and moved around Nicola to the clay oven, from which she removed several rather shapeless, steaming loaves on a metal tray, which she quickly added to the boards the girls carried before shooing them back out of the kitchen. She then loomed over the table and poked Nicola's dough, examining the texture. Muttering something, she shoved her aside and started tearing off small handfuls, arranging them on the tray she had just removed from the oven in vague circles while Nicola stood awkwardly to one side.

Once the tray was back in the oven, the woman turned and regarded Nicola with a firm stare. She then said something in Rohirric that was clearly an order. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," she said, unconsciously wringing her hands.

Dernhild flapped her hands at Nicola, herding her towards the counter and gesturing for her to pick up the two jugs that were resting there. Glancing inside, she saw that one contained water and the other ale. She wrinkled her nose. Dernhild pointed to the jugs, and then to the door.

"You want me to take these to the Hall?" she gathered.

The elderly woman nodded and flapped her hands again, indicating that she should get going. Taking one jug in each hand, Nicola slipped on her high heeled shoes, which she had deposited under the table before getting started on the bread, and headed towards the Hall.

* * *

><p>Eomer spent a few minutes rounding up the twenty four men he had ridden out with late last night, all of whom had stayed in Aldburg for the morning meal, and gathered them all in one corner of the Hall in an attempt to make the his forthcoming explanation as private as possible. They sat around a table, those who had already been served breakfast bringing their boards and tankards with them to continue eating.<p>

"I know you are all curious about the events last night," he said in a low voice. "Some of what I am about to tell you will become common knowledge, but the rest is in strict confidence; I hold you to your silence by your oaths to both lord and lands."

His Riders nodded, understanding the seriousness of that oath.

"Firstly, has anyone spoken of the women we found on the plains to those outside of this group?"

"Yes," Winfred, one of his younger Riders said, whereas everyone else shook their heads. "The stable-hand asked why I was tending to Firefoot – not that I could do much, that bloody stallion of yours barely let me lead him to his stall, let alone rub his down – and I mentioned to him that you were questioning the girl. I said that she was strangely dressed and we found her on the plains."

"Strangely dressed is putting it mildly – hardly dressed would be more accurate, did you see those legs?" he heard another Rider mutter to his neighbour.

"Aye, wouldn't mind those wrapped around me on a winters night," Bregod replied, sparking an argument with another man.

"You would bed a wraith?"

"Who said she's a wraith? She looked flesh and blood to me."

"You saw her face, she cried black tears and appeared out of the grass -"

"Enough," Eomer said sharply, noting that he would have to groom Firefoot himself after breakfast – the stallion allowed no one but him to perform the task. He glared at his men until the lingering murmuring stopped and he had their undivided attention. "I can assure you she is human, but before I begin the explanation of her presence, I have some bad news – Gandalf has told me that Saruman the White has declared himself an enemy. It will only be a matter of time before he moves openly against Rohan."

Many of them shifted uneasily, knowing that this could well mean open war for their land. "What are your plans, my lord?" Fengal, an older Rider and loyal friend asked him.

"Fortification of the outlying villages and an increased number of patrols to begin with, though I will need to discuss details with you later today," Eomer replied. "Gandalf is riding to Edoras, and so we may have further orders from the King within a few days."

"And the girl?" one of his men asked – not one who had contributed to the previous argument, he noticed.

Eomer dragged one hand through his knotted hair, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. "This is the matter which requires uttermost secrecy, for it concerns the affairs of Wizards. The girl, Nicola, _is_ human though she does not come from this world. As such, she must be kept from Saruman at all costs – Gandalf has placed her under my protection."

"Lucky bastard," Bregod mumbled under his breath.

"What do you mean, not from this world?" Fengal asked, leaning forward.

"She is not from Middle Earth, hence her strange clothing," he said, knowing how fantastical this explanation would sound to his Riders since they had not spoken to her and experienced her strange ways. "I'm sorry I cannot explain more, I know little about the matter myself. However, Nicola will likely be with us for some months and we _must_ keep her presence secret."

The men nodded their understanding and conversation began to drift, several men questioning him about his plans for fortification against Isengard, which they saw as the more important issue. He was also aware of a few men discussing some of Nicola's _attributes_, reminding him that he would have to find clothes for her, as well as a place to stay. Letting himself fall out of the discussion, he mentally ran over his options, considering each room in Aldburg.

He didn't entirely trust her – yes, Gandalf had vouched for her, but the Wizard had hardly spent more than a few minutes in her company. He wanted to keep an eye on her, and not only for her own protection. For that reason, it was best he kept her as close to him as possible. The Domestics shared rooms in the same wing as the kitchen, on the other side of the Hall to his own quarters, but he didn't trust her enough to allow her to share a room with a potentially defenceless stranger.

Inversely, he did not want to house her in the same wing as the Riders that resided in the Hall, not having homes of their own in the town. Based on their conversation, he wasn't sure he could trust _them_ to behave were they to overindulge on ale.

He tapped his long fingers against his chin. There was a small room attached to his own quarters, unused at the moment and intended as a nursery if and when he bought a wife to Aldburg. It was sparsely furnished, containing only a small bed and an armoire, but that was all she would need.

The only problem was having her at _such_ close quarters may well fray his nerves.

Speaking of which, Nicola appeared in the doorway, trailing after the two other serving girls and holding two large jugs. She caught his eye and strode over, making several of his men fall silent, whereas the rest simply continued their discussions. Watching her approach, his eyes were drawn downwards once again and he absently thought that Bregod might have had a point.

She halted in front of him, one hip jutting out from the way she stood with her weight resting on one leg. The stance made her look confident, though her expression was tired.

"Ale for breakfast? Really?" she questioned disapprovingly, making no move to serve him.

Eomer pushed his empty tankard pointedly towards her, not taking his eyes from her face. "Is that a problem?"

"It's unusual."

"For you, perhaps," he commented, letting himself be drawn into the burgeoning argument.

"It's also unhealthy," she pointed out, leaning forward to fill his tankard from one of the jugs. In doing so, she unknowingly presented him and his men an unencumbered view down the front of her dress. Her rather ample bosom was contained by two cups of dark purple material instead of the breast-band women usually wore. He heard one man mutter a curse in Rohirric.

Eomer rubbed a hand over the lower half of his face as he formulated a reply. "So is walking around half dressed, you will catch your death."

"Not to mention distract your men," she said, finishing pouring his drink and straightening up. "And you as well, it seems," she added with a smirk, noticing his lowered gaze. "My eyes are up here."

He scowled, wondering if her bold display had been intentional. "You did that on purpose?"

She shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. "No, but I have worked in a nightclub so I know how to deal with leering men."

His frown deepened at the unfamiliar terminology and, based on her clothing and brazen behaviour, the unwelcome possibility that this 'nightclub' might be a brothel of some sort. He was given no opportunity to reply, since Nicola had already moved up the bench to serve drink to the rest of his men. He was pleased to note that most of them ignored her beyond mild curiosity and polite thanks in Westron for the drink.

However, when she leant forward to fill Bregod's tankard he pinched her backside with a chuckle. Now this was hardly a rare occurrence among the more boisterous of his Riders, and typically the girls would either giggle, shriek or make their displeasure known with mild violence.

Nicola's reaction, however, was not typical – she casually swung the jug she was serving from sideways so that the stream of ale fell straight into Bregod's lap instead of his cup.

"How clumsy of me," she said, her face the picture of innocence.

Bregod leapt to his feet with a curse, dabbing at the wet patch on his crotch. Eomer's lips twitched in reluctant amusement, but he quickly schooled his expression. He too got to his feet and grabbed Nicola's wrist before she could walk away. She looked at him coolly, no trace of guilt on her face.

"I'll thank you not to show such disrespect to my men," he said sternly.

"Then tell them to stop sexually harassing me," she replied in an equally firm voice, shaking his grip loose and heading to the other side of the Hall to continue serving.

To his surprise, Bregod – who was only succeeding in spreading the stain further – was laughing. Eomer looked at him curiously. "I don't think she needs your protection, my lord. She can look after herself," he said in response to his Marshals questioning look.

Eomer lowered himself back down to the bench, watching Nicola serve the other men. She had not even been here a full day and she was already a disruptive influence. He wondered if she realised just how _dangerous_ she could be, the submissive and scared girl of only an hour or so ago replaced by cocky confidence that belayed the seriousness of the situation.

He shook his head slightly, resigning himself to her company. He picked up his tankard and glanced inside, before startling his men by slamming it back down on the table so that the liquid sloshed over the rim.

"I'm going to the stables," he announced sourly to his surprised companions, who wisely didn't question his sudden temper.

The girl had the _gall _to give him water instead of ale.

* * *

><p>After having served breakfast Nicola was roped into helping with the washing up. She and the other two girls had to carry the boards outside to rinse them in icy water before laying them out to dry. The girls, who had spoken a little English – or Westron, as it was called here – introduced themselves as Leofwyn and Holdwyn. They were sisters, with Leofwyn as the oldest. Their family lived on a small farm outside of the town. She discovered that they had five brothers, all grown and working the land, and so the girls had decided to seek their wages in the town.<p>

They had asked her several questions about herself, which she had answered as vaguely as possible, telling them she was from a big city and she didn't know how long she would be staying in Rohan. The minute she was free from the kitchen she would find Eomer and ask him what he had told his men, wanting to get her story straight so it didn't contradict any information he gave.

And after that, she was going to find a bed and sleep for several hours.

Once the girls had finished the washing and swept the kitchen (with a birch twig broom, forcing Nicola to suppress the urge to pretend to be a witch) Dernhild gave them their own breakfast. The others sat in the Hall to eat, joined by several other servants who had not eaten with the Riders, but Nicola took her bread and went in search of her host, eating as she walked.

It was her first taste of Rohan's food, and she found it rather lacking. Having been used to supermarket white bread, the dark, seedy rye-bread felt unusually course in her mouth, despite the thick honey that was slathered on top. Nevertheless, she had eaten the whole thing by the time she had reached the porch, where she had said farewell to Gandalf just over an hour ago.

A young man was sitting on one of the steps of the Hall, fiddling with the fletching of an arrow that he held in his hands. Noticing the pile of half finished arrows and feathers weighted down by a small stone beside him, she realised he was making them himself.

"Excuse me?" she interrupted, coming down the steps towards him.

He turned and squinted up at her, the morning sun catching the blond in his hair. He was rather young, she noticed, probably fifteen or sixteen. "Do you know where I can find Eomer?" she asked him.

"The Marshal went to the stables, he had to groom his horse," the boy replied. "Though he seemed to be in a bad mood."

Nicola smirked, wondering if it was because she had given him water instead of ale. "Thanks for the warning – that's the stable over there, isn't it?" she asked, pointing to the building Gandalf had retrieved his borrowed horse from.

The young man nodded, and she moved past him down the steps. Walking quickly across the courtyard, her shoes clacking on the stone, she found the door to the stables ajar.

The large building was dim and cool inside, smelling of horse and leather. It was divided into stalls on either side of a wide corridor, each of them barred by a wooden door about chest height. At the far end she could see a bigger enclosure, where Eomer stood with his back to her, brushing a huge, dappled grey stallion. He glanced over his shoulder at her as the door creaked, and then continued his ministrations to the horse, ignoring her.

As she walked the length of the corridor, hoping she wasn't getting any mess on her shoes, several of the other horses made agitated movements within their stalls, apparently reacting to the presence of a stranger. Reaching the stall Eomer was in, she rested both arms on top of the wooden doorframe and leaned her weight against it.

The horse tossed its head and pawed the ground, its nostrils flared as it stared at her. Eomer murmured something in Rohirric, calming the horse as he brushed its gleaming coat. His voice was deep and soothing, smoothing over the guttural pronunciation of the foreign words. The stallion, only marginally less aggravated, jerked its head and neighed.

"He doesn't like me," Nicola commented, watching the restless movements of the animal.

"I consider him a good judge of character," Eomer replied brusquely, brushing the hair on the horses powerful neck.

"You don't like me either."

"I do not have to like you in order to protect you," he said emotionlessly, not denying her statement.

She stared at his back, watching how the over-lapping metal plates on his shoulders shifted against the main body of his armour with each brushing movement. She lowered her eyes to the wood-grain of the stall door. "May I ask why?"

"Why?" Eomer repeated, finally turning to look at her with a faintly incredulous expression. "You walk into my life with your provocative clothing and your disrespectful attitude, expecting me to -"

"Excuse me, in what way was I disrespectful?" she interrupted, wondering if he was _this_ worked up over a simple cup of water.

"You poured ale in Bregod's lap."

"He pinched me!"

"So?"

"_So_," she said, stressing the word. "I've dolled out slaps for less. If one wet crotch is enough to show that they shouldn't mess with me, then I would say your men got off lightly."

Eomer turned his back on her and resumed brushing his horse with more vigour than was probably necessary. "You can hardly blame them for reacting to you like that, most of those men are fresh off a two week patrol and your clothing leaves little to the imagination."

"So you think this is my fault?"

"Yes, you are dressed more indecently than a common whore."

That stung. Yes, she was in her clubbing clothes, but her playsuit fell almost to her knees – practically prudish, among the London clubs. Then again, all other women she had seen in Rohan were wearing floor length dresses with long sleeves – her clothes were probably the equivalent of a woman walking down the street dressed only in a bra and pants. She felt a belated wave of embarrassment; no wonder the men had stared at her.

"Got a lot of experience with common whores, have you?" she asked snidely, venting her frustration at herself onto him.

He gave her a withering look over his shoulder. "Not a question I am normally asked by a lady."

"I don't think I am a lady in your book," she muttered, half to herself.

"You most certainly are not," he replied, no longer even looking at her.

Nicola allowed silence to fall between them. For a few minutes she simply watched him as he brushed his way down the horses flanks, occasionally muttering soothing words as he worked. He was entirely absorbed on his task, his expression slightly more relaxed as he focused on the horse. Since Gandalf had left he had been nothing but snappish, his face near constantly set into a scowl whenever he looked at her.

"What's this really about?" she asked softly.

Eomer's rhythmic brushing slowed, but she got no reply.

"This is more than my provocative clothing, which I'll have you know is perfectly decent in my world," she couldn't resist adding. "So what's the real problem?"

He lowered the brush and turned to face her again. He took two threatening steps towards her before realising he had moved and stopped himself, his countenance dark with anger. "The _problem_ is that Gandalf didn't even _ask_ if I could protect you, he just assumed that I would – and you, sauntering around with your brazen attitude, don't seem to understand the seriousness of the situation and just how dangerous your presence in Rohan is."

Nicola physically bit her tongue to stop herself from snapping back at him – she sensed it would be easy to be drawn into a full on shouting match, and so she took a moment to carefully compose a reply. "I have only been here a few hours," she reminded him, keeping her voice controlled. "And in that time I have had to accept that a fictional place is real and that I am no longer even in my own world. You think I am not taking this seriously, but at the moment my entire concept of what is rational and scientifically possible is hanging from a thread. If I don't laugh I will cry, and if I start to cry I will probably go mad."

Eomer looked thoroughly unimpressed with this speech, and when he spoke his voice was icy. "This country is on the brink of war. As if I don't have enough to deal with already, I have been saddled with a girl who doesn't speak any Rohirric, has no useful skills and can't even ride a horse." His gaze was full of contempt as he stared down at her. "You will be nothing but a burden."

She swallowed thickly, an inexplicable lump in her throat. "I can't believe how callous you are," she breathed, wishing she had gone with Gandalf. She was beginning to get the impression that fighting orcs would have been preferable to staying with this hateful man.

"Me, callous?" Eomer repeated incredulously. Behind him the horse whinnied and pawed the ground again, probably sensing his masters indignation. Its ears lay flat against it's head, and she could have sworn the horse was glaring at her.

"Yes, you!" she said, feeling her previous hurt being replaced once again by anger – how easily this man could infuriate her! "You have your friends, your family and your home all around you. Your life will _barely_ be disrupted by my presence, whereas I have been torn away from my entire _world _with no nope of returning and thrown into a society that is completely foreign to me – but no, _you _are the victim here Eomer!"

She hated that her voice broke slightly towards the end, and hated that she could see his side of the argument. Did it make her selfish to worry about her own fate? She wanted to simply storm out of the stable, to slam doors or hide in her bedroom – but of course, she didn't have a room here. Keeping her feet planted firmly on the ground, she dug her nails into the wood of the stall door, forcing herself to keep eye-contact with him as she waited for the tirade that would surely follow

Eomer's expression did not soften at all, instead he wore a mask of stony cold indifference as he turned back to the stallion. "What do you want, Nicola?" he asked wearily instead of fighting back, resuming his brushing.

She bit the inside of her cheek. "I want you to show me to a room," she said, striving to keep her voice even.

"Why?"

"I'm tired, I want to rest."

"It's not even mid-morning yet."

"And I've been awake all night," she reminded him.

He sighed, probably wanting to avoid another argument just as much as she did. The horse gently nudged his shoulder, wanting him to resume his grooming. He rubbed a hand along its neck. "Let me finish here first."

There was another minute or two of silence, in which she alternated between watching Eomer and glancing around the stable. She noticed a series of hooks, from which several other brushes were hanging. Picking one, Nicola lifted the latch of the stall and opened the door – the horse neighed thunderously at her entrance and reared a few feet off the floor, bringing its powerful hooves down with a thud. Eomer slipped in front of the horse before it could rear again, catching its head between his hands and running his palms down its velvet nose.

"What are you doing?" he asked over his shoulder. The horse was still agitated by her presence in its stall, dancing from side to side despite Eomer's calming caresses.

"Helping," she said, half raising he brush.

He glanced down at her hand and then back up to her face, probably looking for any trace of malice. "That's the wrong brush. It's for the mane and tail, not the coat," he said, quickly exchanging it with the brush he was using. "Use this. Long strokes, but not too firm."

The horse visibly shivered with her first touch, jerking its head towards the ground, but quickly calmed when Eomer started working on its mane. Its hair was dark grey, the colour of thunderclouds, with dappled white spots on its hindquarters. The mane and tail were glossy black, the hair corse and rough. Nicola felt dwarfed as she stood next to the huge animal, her head only just clearing its powerful back. Absently, she wondered how a man even as tall as Eomer could mount him.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Firefoot," he replied, a fond tone in his voice. "I've had him since he was a yearling. Trained him myself."

Nicola pursed her lips, considering whether or not to ask her next question. It could be madness, and she may well end up regretting it, but she found herself curious to learn more about horses herself. "Will you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"How to ride," she clarified, holding her breath for his answer.

He seemed surprised by her question. "Why do you want to learn?"

She found herself going with the most honest answer, not looking at him as she spoke. "Because when I told you I couldn't ride you looked completely and utterly disgusted, as if I was stupid for not knowing."

"I wasn't aware that you sought my approval," Eomer said, sounding mildly amused.

"I'm not." She paused, looking for another explanation to make her point. After a moment she remembered an idiom her father had used once. "My father used to say that every problem is an opportunity in disguise. I've lived in a big city all my life and I never had the chance – or even the inclination – to ride, but being stuck in Rohan, home of the Horse-Lords, seems a pretty good time to learn."

"I don't think I can teach you," Eomer said bluntly, making her heart sink a little. He them smiled – the first true smile she had seen from him. It transformed his face, making him look less gruff and more boyish somehow. "We would end up throttling each other by the end of the first lesson."

Nicola suppressed a smirk – even though she had only met him a few hours ago, she certainly had never met anyone as capable as Eomer for drawing her into an argument.

"My squire, Aldhelm, might have some time," he continued. "He isn't old enough to ride out with an Eorde yet, and so he alternates his duties between training at Aldburg and his fathers' tannery. It isn't hunting season, so his workload at his fathers is reasonably light. He would be able to teach you."

Impressed by how their conversation had become fairly civilized, Nicola smiled at him. "Thank you."

"You won't be thanking me later," he said.

"Why not?"

"Most of us learn to ride as children – I could ride practically before I could walk. It's harder for adults to learn. You'll be black and blue," he said with relish. "Think you can manage it?"

"I'm not one to back down from a challenge," Nicola responded, arching an eyebrow at him.

Eomer paused in his brushing and looked at her – for once it wasn't suspicion, irritation or appraisal, but instead honest curiosity. "No, I'm starting to realise that about you," he said in a deceptively mild voice.

* * *

><p><strong>Well you've read this far, so how about clicking that little button and review?<strong>

**To make reviews more fun, I want everyone to answer a question as well as telling me what they think about this chapter – so, who is your favourite LOTR character and why?**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN – Sorry for the long wait, I've had four essays since the start of the New Year - but this chapter is extra long to make up for it! Thank you for all of the LOVELY reviews, you guys are awesome – particularly _TKH, Define X, SternAmBauch _and anyone else who answered my question. **

**AN2 – Rohirric words are derived from Old English in this story and _hollantide _is the name of a Manx festival that I borrowed.**

* * *

><p>The room Eomer led her too was large and spacious – in fact, it was more of a suite than a single room, with three other doors leading to rooms unknown. It reminded her of a hunting cabin: all carved wooden beams, wall hangings depicting horses, furs on the flagstone floor and a huge fireplace, currently unlit. There was a table that could seat four, though two of the chairs were pulled back at angles as if they had been left in a hurry. The bed was large, easily big enough for more than one person, and covered in both cotton sheets and furs – she tried to ignore the fact that they would be real animal skins, silencing the squeamish voice inside her.<p>

"This is nice," Nicola said, sitting down on the bed and hesitantly touching the rough fur, letting it slip through her fingers. "A little rustic, but nice."

Eomer was giving her a strange look, watching her lounge on the bed. "This is also my room."

She stood up quickly.

"That door leads to my study, that one to the latrine," he said, gesturing towards the doors – Nicola had a sudden flash of trepidation, wondering what the plumbing in a quasi-medieval society would be like. "You will be through here," he continued, walking across the room and opening the remaining door. Following him, she peered around his shoulder into the room beyond, lit by a single window set high in the wall. This room was much smaller, containing only a narrow bed, a small bedside table and a wardrobe.

"Might I ask why I will be living in your quarters?" she asked mildly, realising she would have to walk through his room each time she wanted to go to her own.

"I want you somewhere I can keep a close eye on you. This room was intended for a nursery, if and when I have a child. Mostly unfurnished at the moment, but it is big enough for you," he said gruffly. "Does it meet with your approval?"

"No, it's fine – I suppose this is all I need, really," she said, slipping around his broad frame to enter the room. It was certainly small, but being a student she had spent more than her share of nights crashing on friends floors after going out – at least the bed looked reasonably comfortable.

She considered his words about this room being for a child, knowing that he would be the King of Rohan and living in Edoras when he had children. If she remembered rightly, Eomer married Princess Lothiriel and had a son called Elfwine. Her eyes slid sideways to glance at him as she realised she was in the presence of future royalty.

She mentally shrugged – he may be a future king, but it didn't make him any less of an ass.

Eomer lingered at the doorway as she flitted about, lost in her thoughts as she brushed her hand over the woollen blankets at the foot of the bed and then moving to open the armoire. It was empty, though there were several shelves and a rail to hang clothes. Affixed to the inside of one of the doors was a small piece of polished metal. Realising that this was a rather basic mirror, she leant forward to view her reflection for the first time since she had left the bathroom of the nightclub the previous evening.

Her hair looked like a bird had nested in it, but worse than that her mascara had ran halfway down her cheeks in faded black tracks. "Have I been walking around like this all morning?" she said, horrified at her appearance.

"Is this not usual when you cry?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious. "I thought perhaps black tears were the norm in your world."

She snorted, not wanting to explain the effects of water on mascara to him. Instead she licked her fingers and, using the mirror, focused on rubbing the smears of black off her cheeks. Eomer vanished from the door and then quickly reappeared, holding a damp washcloth which he proffered wordlessly. Thanking him, she took it and set about scrubbing away all lingering traces of her make up – she tried to ignore the feeling that, in doing so, she was removing part of her identity as a modern woman. She supposed she would have to get used to not wearing any cosmetics, a feat which was practically unthinkable in her old life.

When she was done she handed the cloth back to Eomer, who was still watching her curiously. Feeling an awkward atmosphere start to settle between them, she gestured quickly to the bed. "I think I'll just …"

He nodded sharply. "Sleep well," he said abruptly, before turning on his heel and closing the door firmly behind him.

She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to finally be alone with the prospect of sleeping. Twisting around to undo the zip at the side of her play suit, she quickly pulled it off, followed by her tights (which were now looking a little worse for wear with grass-stains and several ladders) until she was standing in her purple bra and pants. Casting a nervous look at the door, hoping Eomer wouldn't come back in when she was just in her underwear, she tossed her clothing over the foot of the bed.

She wondered if it was strange that he had put her in a room so close to his own, within the very same suite. She believed what he had said about wanting to keep an eye on her – but wasn't sure whether it was for her own safety, or because he was still suspicious of her, despite Gandalf's assurance that she wasn't a spy of Sarumans. Then again, she hadn't missed his roving eyes as she had served breakfast; it was possible he had a more lascivious motivation. She snorted at her own whimsical vanity, dismissing the notion as foolish – any man would look at a women dressed as 'provocatively' as she had been in the Hall, it didn't mean he had any intentions towards her. Besides, he had said outright that he didn't like her barely half an hour ago – it was far more likely that he simply didn't trust her.

Deciding to think about this later, she crawled inside the covers, eager to slip into blissful, mind numbing sleep. The sheets were a little scratchy, but thick and heavy enough to provide warmth. She wiggled her bottom slightly, testing the mattress. It was malleable and crackled when she moved. Digging her fingers into it, she deduced that it was stuffed tight with both straw and wool – certainly no match for her mattress at home, but it was better than the cold flagstones on the floor.

Her jaw cracked as she let out a mighty yawn. Burrowing down in the narrow bed, she drew the covers up over her head to block out the morning light until she was in a cocoon of blackness. Finally alone with her own thoughts, she briefly considered indulging in a crying-jag, as any heroine thrown into another world would be expected to do. Dispelling the melodramatic impulse, she lay perfectly still and listened to the sound of people and horses outside her window. Within mere minutes her exhaustion had caught up with her and, instead of dwelling on her predicament, she was fast asleep.

* * *

><p>Eomer closed the door to Nicolas room, pausing with his fingers on the handle for a long moment. Inside the room he could hear the sound of her kicking of her shoes and getting undressed. Leaving her to her rest, he headed slowly toward the stand for his armour, unbuckling the bracers from his wrists as he walked. Each piece of armour was meticulously removed, checked for damage and then placed on the stand. It would need cleaning and oiling, but that was a task for later<p>

Finally free of its weight, which he had been wearing for several days' whist out on patrol, he flexed his shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had built there and pulled his tunic over his head. It was soiled with sweat and dirt, so he left it draped over the back of a chair to be washed later. On top of his chest of draws was a large bowl of lukewarm water, from which he had retrieved the washcloth for Nicola to use. Cupping some water in his hands, he splashed his face and neck, rubbing vigorously to remove any lingering dust from riding.

Feeling as clean as he could without fully immersing himself in a bath, which would be pointless since he was heading down to the training grounds later, he donned a fresh tunic and headed to his study – his own, private sanctuary. It was a small but serviceable room, with only a desk and a few shelves, mostly containing ledgers for Aldburg. Very few people ever disturbed him here, and so it was normally an area of quiet contemplation.

Lowering himself into the chair, he placed his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands, finally permitting himself to let out a long, loud groan that had been threatening to escape for most of the morning.

_Only a few hours_, he thought, irked at the disruption this slip of a girl had caused in his life in such a short space of time.

He cursed all Wizards under his breath, blaming them for this difficult situation he now found himself in. Gandalf had said that Saruman would be searching for Nicola, but how ardently would he look and what means would he use? Aldburg didn't have the strength to fight the full might of Isengard, should the White Wizard choose to unleash it. She simply didn't understand the _danger_ her presence had stirred.

He knew that he had lashed out at her in the stables, his formidable temper getting the better of him. But then something strange had happened – _she had lashed right back. _Not even his most sturdy warriors would argue with him when he was in an ireful mood, some of them not daring to look him in the eye. But Nicola had glared at him, her fingers turning white as they gripped the top of Firefoot's stall door, and had essentially accused him of throwing a tantrum.

And there is was, the smallest shift in perspective. She wasn't a spirit that had risen fully formed from the grass, nor was she the conjurings of Wizards. She was a person – a highly unusual person that he neither liked nor respected much, but a person nevertheless.

In many ways he could see her point; yes, she had been thrown against her will into an unknown world but she was still only one person. He had to look at the bigger picture - a country on the edge of war, where food provisions had to be put aside, weapons and armour stock piled, villages fortified against attack and all defences enhanced. Many of the herds would have to be moved out of the range of raiders and patrols would have to be increased.

He sighed and raised his head, rubbing one hand over his beard. Standing, he moved to the shelves and pulled down a few of the large, leather bound books, stacking them on the desk in front of him. Updating the ledgers was a thankless task, one that he found arduous. Being away from Aldburg on patrol for weeks at a time always caused the work to build up, so that he spent his free days adding up columns of numbers.

For several years now Eowyn had been subtly pointing out that finding a wife would take these tasks out of his hands. Of course, it wasn't that simple: a woman to take over the running of Aldburg would have to be suitable. Rohan did not set much store by a class system - theoretically he could marry a farm girl if he wanted, despite being of the House of Eorl, but practicality dictated that his future wife should be able to read and write so that she could manage the books as well as her other duties. At the moment Dernhild helped him with the upkeep of Aldburg, having taken over the role of housekeeper after his mother had died, managing the staff and food supplies with a firm hand, while he managed the books and ledgers.

Largely, the Rohirrim were not literate, having no written language of their own. Both the nobility and high ranking Riders could read and write Westron, but the rest of the people had neither the need, not the inclination to learn the skill. The kind of woman that would make him a 'suitable' wife did not generally frequent Aldburg, a fortress that didn't hold any of the court pleasures of Edoras.

Inking his pen, he settled down for a long morning of work, trying to ignore the heaviness of his eyes – Nicola had complained that she hadn't slept the night before, but he too was in the same situation; the last time he had slept was nearing two days ago, and that had only been a scant few hours on the cold, hard ground.

For the next few hours he worked his way steadily through ledgers containing details of food orders, horses, rent of houses in the town and taxes until they all blurred together. It was well into the afternoon by the time he was finished, his wrist aching and a headache pounding between his eyes.

_Bema, give me a dozen orcs any day_, he thought to himself, closing the last of the books. He yawned hugely, interlacing his fingers and pushing his arms out in front of him, stretching the sore muscles until his knuckles cracked loudly.

As he re-entered the main room his eyes were automatically drawn to Nicola's door. Before he could think about his actions, he had crossed the room and quietly opened the door to check on her.

She was fast asleep, completely covered by the sheets with only the top portion of her face peeking out over the blanket. Her body was curled into a tight ball and her dark brown hair was spread in disarray over the pillow. He studied her silently, internally marvelling how such a tiny women could hold the potential for so much damage.

He frowned to himself as he looked at her – he hadn't really put much thought to the fact that she actually had knowledge of the future. Just how far did her knowledge stretch? Did she know what would become of Rohan if Saruman attacked?

Her clothes were strewn haphazardly over the end of the bed, her strange pointed shoes on the floor. They reminded him that he needed to find clothes for her, knowing that Dernhild would have words with him if he let her serve in the Hall again wearing only that short dress again. He doubted any of the Domestics would have spare dresses that would accommodate her small, curvy frame, so she would have to go down to the seamstress in town to be fitted.

Closing the door softly, he went in search of something she could wear in the meantime.

* * *

><p>Nicola woke to the sound of knocking. Grumbling at her sleep being disturbed, she blearily lifted her head from the pillow and squinted towards the door. Eomer was leaning casually against the frame, a bundle of cloth in his hands. He was watching her impassively.<p>

"What?" she demanded groggily, still not quite awake.

"It's time to get up now, you've been asleep several hours," he said.

Nicola groaned and dropped her head, mashing her face into the pillow once more. "Five more minutes," she mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow.

A hand grasped her shoulder, still covered by the blankets, and shook firmly. "I said now," he repeated sternly, looming over her while she glared belligerently up at him.

"Urgh fine," she muttered, sitting up in bed and stretching her arms above her head languorously.

Eomer had backed away a few paces and was staring at her in what could only be described as shock – she glanced at him in confusion, and then realised that the blankets covering her had pooled at the waist, revealing her bra as she stretched. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly away from her.

Feeling her face flush, she quickly grabbed the blankets and pulled them to her chin.

"I bought clothes for you," he said, still not looking at her as he deposited the items at the foot of the bed. She noticed that he had changed out of his armour. He looked less bulky without it, the dark brown tunic he was wearing hugging his frame. "They are men's and will probably be too big, but they will do for the walk to down to the town."

"We're going to the town?" she asked, leaning forward to rummage through the clothes, keeping one hand grasping the covers to her chest. In the bundle was a dark green tunic, a belt, some light brown leggings and a pair of boots.

"_You_ are going to town, I am going to the training grounds," he told her. "We don't have anything here that will fit you, so you have to go down to the seamstress."

"Shopping, cool," Nicola said, ignoring Eomer's confused look. "This seamstress, does she speak English?"

His confusion deepened into a full-blown scowl. "What is this _Een-glesh_ you speak of?"

"Oh, I mean Westron," she corrected herself – she would have to remember that one.

"Yes, she does," he said, his scowl fading. "Here, you will need this." He dug a hand into his pocket and drew out a tiny bag, which he tossed onto the bed in front of her. It was surprisingly heavy and clinked when she picked it up. Tipping it up, numerous coins spilt out on the covers. Large, thick coppers, dainty silvers and a single tiny gold one.

"Huh, I wonder what the exchange rate is," she mused to herself. She weighed the gold coin in the palm of her hand, speculating how many pounds it would be worth.

"That is your wages," he told her, nodding to the puddle of coins strewn haphazardly over her bed. "You are being given it in advance so you can buy clothes, though it should last you a long while. You should get several dresses, nothing fancy, and maybe a pair of leggings for riding. Don't forget a decent pair of boots, I doubt those ones will fit you properly."

"Dresses?" she said, pulling a face. The dresses Rohan's women favoured all seemed to be floor-length with long sleeves, lovely but impractical to her modern mind. She had only worn a long dress once, at her school prom, and had spent most of the evening stumbling over the hem. "Would it be inappropriate for me to wear just leggings instead?"

He gave her an odd look, but didn't argue. "No, that's fine."

"Great," she said with a smile. "That's more like what I wear at home, so I'll be more comfortable and probably won't trip up as much."

She thought she saw his lips twitch in faint amusement, but he didn't comment. Instead he brusquely excused himself so that she could dress, telling her to find him in the Hall when she was ready. The moment the door closed she pushed the covers off, knocking several of the coins to the floor. The cool air hit her bare skin, so she quickly reached for the clothes.

The leggings were soft and supple, the texture similar to suede. They were too long for her, but she rolled the hems up at the ankle to accommodate their length. Next, she pulled the tunic over her head. It had a v-neck, showing the barest hint of cleavage and falling to her knees. The thick belt was too long to wrap round her waist, so she settled it over her hips instead. Donning the boots last, she found that they were slightly too big, but decided to wear them instead of torturing her feet further by putting her heels back on.

Opening the wardrobe, she checked her reflection in the mirror, running her hand through her hair several times to neaten it, steadfastly ignoring the twinges of pain as her fingers caught on knots. Feeling moderately presentable, she scooped the coins from the bed and floor into the drawstring bag, which she then tied to her belt and headed out of the room.

But before she went down to the Hall she had to take care of business, so to speak. Ever since she had woken up her bladder had been making itself known. Steeling herself, she hesitantly went to explore the room Eomer had pointed out as the latrine.

The room was about the same size as her bedroom. There was a large, copper bathtub lined with cloth taking up most of the space and at the far end of the room there was a bench with (_oh God_, she thought) a hole in it. Stepping forward with an unreasonable amount of caution, she looked down and was relieved to find she couldn't see the bottom of the hole – that was something to be thankful for, at least.

Next to the bench was a stack of small, thin squares of material and a brazier holding faintly smouldering coals. She looked from one to the other and deduced that you were meant to burn the cloth once you were done with it. Efficient, she supposed, internally relieved.

It also turned out that there were toothbrushes – of a sort, at least. Rough balls of cotton that were rubbed on the teeth to clean them, followed by chewing sprigs of mint.

Well, her first foray into the hygiene of an archaic society wasn't as horrifying an experience as she thought it would be, she mused to herself as she headed towards the Hall, the money bag jingling happily at her belt.

The Hall was mostly deserted, nothing like the bustle breakfast had been. Eomer stood talking to an older Rider who was holding a blunt sword. Noticing her approach, he nodded to the other man, dismissing with the terse words "I'll join you shortly."

She waited until the man inclined his head and left before closing in on Eomer. His eyes flicked up and down, taking in her clothing. "Better," he said. "Though you are wearing it wrong."

"How so?" she asked, looking down at herself.

"The belt is meant to be higher."

"It won't fit, it's too big," she pointed out, lifting it above her hips to her waist to prove her point. The belt was already buckled on the tightest hole and still felt loose on her hips.

"Here," he said, stepping forward. Nicola suppressed a squeak and froze when his hands reached out and started unbuckling the belt for her. Eomer caught the movement and scowled, though continued his ministrations.

Her eyes were level with his chest, though his head was slightly bent so that he could see what he was doing – he was far too close to comfort and she found herself wondering if they had any concept of _personal space_ in Rohan. She stayed stock still as he unthreaded the buckle and slipped the coin purse from the belt. He then lifted it higher, to her waist, and tightened it once more. He held the belt between his thumb and forefinger when it reached a snug fit, his hands brushing against her skin through the tunic.

He then removed the belt entirely from her and, stepping away, laid it out on a nearby table, keeping his finger on the belt to mark his place. Bracing one foot on the bench, he pulled a small knife from his boot and, using the tip of the blade, gored a new hole in the leather.

"Try that," he said, handing the belt back to her.

"Thank you," she said, her voice breaking slightly. She lowered her gaze as she took the belt back and looped it around herself. With the new hole for the buckle it fit perfectly, subtly cinching her waist.

Eomer didn't seem to realise he had done anything invasive, his expression neutral as he passed the coin purse back to her and she tied it back to her belt. "So, you said you would give me, um, directions?" she said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud to her ears.

She kept nodding as he described how to get to the seamstress's shop within the town, memorising the directions he gave. They walked through the doors of the Hall together, but once they reached the bottom of the steps he bade her goodbye and turned left to the training grounds while she went right towards the town.

Squinting up at the blue sky, she guessed it was mid-afternoon. The sun was bright, though the air was cool. Nicola weaved her way down the road, ignroing the way her slightly-too-large boots rubbed against her heels with each step.

The main road through the town was dusty and full of people. She dodged her way between wagons and horses, gazing at the houses around her. They were charming; wooden awnings were carved with intricate designed and the roofs thatched with gold – an intriguing novelty to a London girl, born and bred. As she moved further from the Hall the houses grew smaller and less ornate, though she couldn't see any signs of disrepair anywhere.

Following Eomer's directions, she took a turning and found herself on what was clearly a market street. Small stalls were erected along the road, selling things like herbs, vegetables and furs. She meandered slowly through the market, looking at the wares and politely shaking her head whenever a stall owner heralded her to come over.

She peered behind the stalls to the buildings behind them until she eventually saw the shop Eomer had described to her.

She knocked on the door and, hearing no reply, slowly pushed it open. The shop was bright and airy, the afternoon light streaming through the front window. Stacked against the far wall were rolls upon rolls on material, mostly earthy tones of brown, green and yellow.

"Hello?" she called out, stepping further into the empty shop.

"One moment!" a cheerful voice answered from a back room, quickly followed by a bustling woman who seemed full of energy, despite her wrinkled face and iron grey hair. She was wearing a plain dress with an apron and held a pin cushion.

"_Gód ofernón_," she said in Rohirric, though seeing Nicola's confused expression she smiled and switched to Westron. "Good afternoon, child – I assume you are not from these parts."

"Uh, no, I'm not," Nicola said awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

"And judging by your ill-fitting, male clothing, you have come to me for new garb?"

"Yes, I – erm – lost my luggage on my journey here," she said, pulling a self-deprecating face, whist inwardly amused at her lie.

"How unfortunate," the seamstress said with genuine sympathy. She gestured to a small stool. "Well, up you get, and we'll get you measured. If you could please remove your belt, that will make things easier."

Nicola did as she asked and clambered up onto the stool. The seamstress pulled a long tightly coiled strip of leather from her apron pocket. As she unravelled it, Nicola noticed the tiny grooves every inch and realised it was a simple tape measure.

The seamstress started by measuring her height, making note of the numbers on a small, slate board. "You're a petite one, aren't you?" she clucked, moving around to measure her hips. "Most of the girls I get in here are tall and thin as a willow wand. You are slim, so you will carry one of my dresses well, but it _is_ nice to see a girl with good, childbearing hips for a change."

"Um, thank you?" she said in a bewildered tone, trying to figure out how she felt about that statement – had someone said it too her back at home, where Western society fixated on airbrushed models, she would have probably taken it as an insult. Here, however, curves were considered a good thing.

"Now then, child," she said, now measuring her hip to ankle. "How many dresses did you want?"

"Actually I don't want dresses, I'd rather have leggings. Though I will need several pairs, and tunics as well."

She paused in her work, gazing up at her in surprise. "No dresses? Why ever not?"

"Leggings are more practical, I will be more comfortable in them."

The seamstress hummed disapprovingly, but dropped the issue for the time being. "You said you lost your belongings, so will you be needing underclothes also?"

"Uh, yes please – and nightclothes too, if you have them," Nicola said, not wanting to sleep in those scratchy sheets in just her bra and pants again.

"What about boots? I don't do shoes, but my brother lives across the street and is a shoe-maker. I can take your foot measurements now and drop them over to him, if you need them," she offered as she measured down the length of her arm.

"That would be great, thank you," Nicola said gratefully.

The seamstress finished up with her measurements, which included measuring around her arms, shins and thighs. She instructed her too take off her boots and stand on a fresh slate board while she drew around their outline in chalk. Then, having got all the measurements she needed, Nicola was ushered over to the side of the shop to examine potential fabrics, the older woman happily talking away about potential styles.

* * *

><p>Eomer braced his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He had just spent a gruelling twenty minutes sparing with one of his Captains, before finally slipping under his guard to give the man what would have been a death blow with the blunt sword.<p>

Fengel ambled over, also panting. He leant on his sword and grinned good naturedly at the Marshal who had just soundly beaten him. "You were holding back," he commented. "You could have won several times, but you chose not to take advantage of the openings."

"I wanted the distraction." He straightened and clapped the man on the shoulder. "Besides, you needed someone to test your stamina, you win to easily and quickly when you spar with your trainees."

"Ah, but it is a guaranteed way of gaining their respect."

Eomer snorted. "That's what Eowyn said last time she visited. She insisted on knocking the stuffing out of half my Riders."

"Did you mind?"

He swiped his forearm across his still sweating brow. "Not at all, it's a lesson in humility – and it teaches them not to underestimate an opponent. I know the ones who can hold their own against her have the potential to be promoted."

"I'm glad that particular test wasn't in place when I was being considered for promotion," the older man said with a grin.

The two men shed their practice armour and stood observing the training ground for several long minutes. The half mile expanse of ground was meticulously divided into sections, with different areas for each activity. There were several large, sandy sparring circles interspersed in the middle of the field, with various strength building exercises between them. On either side of the field were the two archery ranges, the left hand side simply shooting at stuffed targets (some of them wearing the helmets of orcs they had killed) whereas the other side of the field was dominated by a large stretch of grass, where riders were constantly cantering up and down, shooting at another set of targets from a moving horse. At the very far end of the field a large area was reserved for men practicing fighting on horseback, training with both swords and spears.

The training grounds were a public area on the outskirts of the town, used by all. Those who weren't Riders by profession were encouraged to come and practice here with a bow or sword, knowing that every able bodied man would be called to fight in times of war. Even some of the women came to practice their archery.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Fengel asked, still squinting out over the field.

"Talk about what?" Eomer replied, putting up his guard once more.

"What ever it is you need distracting from."

Fengel was one of his oldest friends and could read him well. He had been in his early thirties and near promotion to Captain when Eomer had joined his first patrol as a teenager. Fengel had no compunctions in ordering the young Lord about, correcting his mistakes and giving him sound reprimands that were often warranted due to his hot-headed nature. The man had taken him under his wing, calming the rashness and temper of the teenaged boy, eager to prove himself and desperate to revenge his father by slaughtering as many orcs as possible. Fengel was partially responsible for making him into the stalwart (though often still brash and overly hasty when leading an attack) Marshal he was today.

"We've dealt with the raids of horses from Mordor for months, but now Saruman has openly declared himself an enemy as well everything seems so much more _real_." He rubbed his hand over his beard, his eyes hooded. "We are well prepared with provisions and defence arrangements are ready to be put in place, but it is only a matter of time before we are at open war."

Fengel gave him a stern, yet knowing look. "And …?"

Eomer scowled at his perception, but refused to rise to the bait.

"Come on, my old friend," Fengel continued. "We all saw your conversation at breakfast."

He sighed and examined his practise sword for notches to avoid the other mans knowing gaze. "I realise this must be difficult for her, Bema knows how I would react if I were suddenly thrown from this world." He paused, considering Nicola's behaviour and the expression on her face when Gandalf had told her she couldn't leave. "She's scared, I can see it in her eyes, even though she tries her hardest to hide it, putting on a brave front." He dug the point of his blunt sword into the ground pensively. "She reminds me of a filly that's just been separated from its dam."

"But?" Fengel asked, knowing there would be more to Eomer's opinion.

"But she is simply infuriating! Brash and disrespectful one moment, polite and sincere the next. She cheerfully argued right back when I lost my temper with her, then she flinches at the smallest of things." He paused, surprised by his outburst. "She is very … unusual."

"Undoubtedly," he agreed. "Though surely she is also useful."

"Useful, how?" Eomer asked sharply. The only use he could think of her was her knowledge of the future, which Fengel didn't know about. He had been considering the implications of her fore-knowledge all afternoon. Gandalf had told her not to reveal what she knew, but if she were to tell him what she knew of Saruman's intentions it would go a long way in aiding his plans for Rohan's defences.

"Well, she's from another world, isn't she?" he said practically. "She might have knowledge of medicine or warfare that is different to us."

Eomer tilted his head thoughtfully. "I hadn't considered that."

"You should try to get to know her."

He frowned deeply at the implication.

Fengel laughed at his disapproval. "Not like that, though it's what several of the men are speculating since she is in your rooms. You said yourself that she is going to be with us for some time, so just … don't loose your temper with her."

"Easier said than done," he muttered, keeping his eyes out over the field.

"I'm sure you'll manage just fine," Fengel said jovially. "After all, if you can polish up your manners and keep a civil tongue in your head when you are at Edoras, I'm certain you can handle one girl."

Eomer gave a noncommittal grunt at his words and then narrowed his eyes at one of the trainees. "I'm going back down, Guthmer is making a mess of his footwork." He nodded dismissively to his companion. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Eomer," Fengel called after him, making him turn back. He was surprised by the seriousness of the other mans expression. "I have been your friend long enough to know that you won't have any intentions towards this girl – dishonourable or otherwise, despite what gossip the men come out with. But you know as well as I do that a horse separated from its dam will form a strong bond towards its human trainer – so I advise you to tread carefully there, my friend."

* * *

><p>After much debate and examination of fabrics, Nicola decided on three pairs of leggings, all in the soft brown material similar to the ones she already wore, and six tunics. She had a great time picking out the materials, never having experienced this level of involvement in the making of her clothes. The two women cheerfully debated the pros and cons of each option as they chose colours, eventually settling on greens for two of the tunics, one a deep emerald of forest trees, the other a verdant spring colour. The next two would be different styles, but made from the same rich, dark brown fabric – fairly basic, but they would suffice for her work around Aldburg. The last two materials were her favourites; one was the golden-yellow colour of wheat, the other a pale blue, like the dawn sky – a rare colour, the seamstress told her, since most of the affordable dyes were earthy colours.<p>

"There now, these will be very lovely," the seamstress said, holding the gold material up to Nicola's face. "Though are you sure I cannot interest you in a dress?"

"I'm sure," Nicola smiled, sitting on the floor to pull her too-big boots back on.

The older woman fussed with the fabric, putting away the ones they had discarded. "If you are completely replacing your wardrobe you will need at least one dress, despite matters of practicality – why, whatever were you going to wear to the harvest celebrations next month?"

"What celebrations?"

"What celebr- ?" she gasped. "Bema, you really aren't from around here, are you, girl. The harvest festival, _hollantide_, where we celebrate the harvest and honour the dead."

"Oh," she frowned. "Will it be inappropriate if I don't wear a dress?"

"Not inappropriate, no – but every young girl wants to look their best on _hollantide._ They say it's the night you will dream of your future husband." The lady winked at her.

Nicola laughed, and relented. "Alright, though how much will it be? I don't know what I can afford."

"How much money do you have with you?"

Nicola picked up the small money bag from the floor, where she had left it with her belt, and tipped it into her hand.

The seamstresses' eyes widened. "That's nearly a years worth of wages," she breathed. "You could buy a horse and a half with that."

"Really?" Nicola said, looking dubiously down at the handful of metal in her hand. "Well, how much are the clothes?"

"With the boots and a dress as well …" she paused, eyeing the materials they had piled for her tunics and counting on her fingers. "… five silvers."

That was scarcely a quarter of the coins Eomer had given her, so she handed them over without question, wondering why he had given her so much as she tied the purse back to her belt.

"Do you have any preferences for the fabric of the dress?" she asked, looking down at the five coins in her hand.

"No, you can choose," Nicola replied easily. "I don't know much about the styles of dresses, so I will leave it in your capable hands."

"Bless you child," the woman smiled. "I rarely get a free reign with clothes, the girls are always so insistent that they want this or that – but I'll make you the prettiest girl at _hollantide_. There is a lovely material I have been saving for such an occasion – but I won't show you, that way it will be a surprise."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Nicola said flatteringly.

"I should be done with the first of your tunics tomorrow afternoon, so I'll send my lad to deliver it for you – can't have you walking around in men's clothes now, can we. Where is it you're staying?"

"Up in the Hall."

She raised her eyebrows, but didn't comment. "Very well. I'll also take your foot measurements to my brother, and he should have a nice pair of boots for you by tomorrow as well."

"Thank you very much, you have been very helpful," Nicola said genuinely, feeling that the seamstress was one of the nicest people she had met since entering Rohan. The woman gave her a cheery goodbye and request that she come back again over her shoulder as she carried the chosen materials through to the back room. Nicola left the shop with light spirits and a lighter purse.

* * *

><p>"You look dead on your feet," a familiar, lilting voice said, startling him out of his thoughts.<p>

Nicola was standing beside the table with a smile. She was expertly balancing several laden boards on one arm and passing them out to the seated Riders with the other hand. Eomer was relieved to note that they didn't pay her as much attention now that she was decently clothed.

"Not all of us had the luxury of sleeping the day away," he commented, accepting his own board from her with a grateful nod. Dinner was just being served as he had arrived back from the training grounds with a gaggle of dusty, exhausted trainees in tow. Hungry from the vigorous afternoon of training, they had thrown themselves into seats before even wiping the dust from their faces.

"At least I feel better for having had a nap, you look like you were about to fall asleep on the table," she said with good natured amusement. She certainly was in higher spirits than she had been that morning. She had finished dispensing her load and was now lingering by the table.

"I did not," he grumbled, knowing it was a possibility.

"You did," Nicola said, smiling indulgently. She then wrinkled her nose. "Um, I hate to be rude – but you could really use a bath."

"I am fully aware of the fact," he said, irked at her for pointing it out. He knew that after a two week patrol on horseback and several hours sparring in the training grounds he smelt more than a little ripe. "Did you have any trouble finding your way in town?"

"Nope," she said, popping the p in a perplexing way. "My dad always used to say I am like a human GPS system."

He stared at her blankly.

"I don't get lost easily," she translated, with the barest hint of condescension on her face.

Eomer picked at his food. "Don't you have work to be getting on with?"

"Yes, I just wanted to thank you for giving me my wages in advance, I really appreciate it," she said, smiling once more – he could tell that she had figured out how much money he had given her.

"That money is for the duration of your stay, you should save it for necessities," he said sternly, hoping she hadn't been frivolous while she was in town.

"Understood," she said with mock seriousness.

Eomer waved her away. "Back to the kitchens with you, and ask Dernhild to send hot water to my quarters."

Nicola smirked and sauntered away with a swish of her hips.

She didn't approach him again all through dinner, though his eyes kept flicking over to her every time she appeared through the kitchen door with more boards or jugs of ale in hand. He noticed that a few of the Riders still seemed wary of her, though most had accepted the new server in their midst without question.

Eomer was among the first to finish his food, having left his breakfast unfinished that morning and working on the ledgers through lunch. Washing down his meal with a tankard of ale, he bade his Riders goodnight and left the table.

He headed straight to his quarters, looking forward to the relief a bath would give to his tired muscles. Inside the room he found two domestics filling the tub with the last few buckets of hot water. Thanking them, he stripped the moment they had left and submerged himself in the tub.

He relaxed in the water, letting it sooth his aching limbs. He was careful not to fall asleep, knowing it would likely be Nicola who would find him in such a state. Before long, the water had started to cool. Leaning out of the tub to grab a washcloth and soap, he settled back in the water to work on scrubbing the dust from his skin. He then dunked his head under water, rubbing at his scalp and feeling the knots that had accumulated in his hair.

By now the water had passed tepid and was rapidly approaching cold. Wringing his hair, Eomer stepped out of the tub and grabbed the nearest towel. He rubbed it furiously over his hair to stop it dripping and then slung it around his hips.

Re-entering the main room, he quickly donned the pair of trousers he usually slept in. The room was warm from the merrily crackling fire, so he didn't bother with a shirt or tunic. Grabbing a comb from the top of his draws, he steadily worked the knots from his damp hair, knowing it would be impossibly matted when it dried if he didn't.

By the time Nicola arrived back in the room Eomer was seated at the table, feeling noticeably more refreshed after having bathed. He was carefully cleaning and oiling each piece of his armour with meticulous precision. There was a faint knock on the door and she cautiously pushed her head in, before coming all the way into the room. Her eyes took in his naked chest before skittering away.

"What kept you?" he asked, momentarily looking up from his work. "Dinner finished hours ago."

"Washing up, cleaning the kitchen, sweeping the Hall," she replied easily, the very faintest of blushes on her cheeks. "Do you have any idea how much work goes into the upkeep of this place?"

"Yes, but usually it's the cleaners who sweep the Hall, not the serving girls," he pointed out.

"I volunteered, seemed only fair since I didn't work over lunchtime."

Surprised by her consideration, he looked up at her properly. Her hair was still knotted and the tunic crumpled from work. She had already removed her boots and was standing barefoot on the wolf-skin rug, holding her shoes in one hand. She seemed tired, but content.

"So, you survived your first day in Rohan then," he commented wryly, tossing the rag he had been using to polish his armour onto the table.

"Against all odds," she replied sombrely. "I think I'm just going to go to bed."

Eomer nodded again and watched her cross the room. She paused when she reached her door. "Can I sleep in one of your shirts?" she asked, turning back to face him.

"Excuse me?"

"I ordered nightclothes from the seamstress, but they won't be here for a few days. Can I use something of yours in the meantime?"

"Help yourself," he said, gesturing to the draws over his shoulder. He heard her moving around behind him and pulling something from his draws. There was then the sound of her door opening. The time before he went to bed was usually solitary; having someone in the room with him felt very strange.

"Good night, then," she said, almost hesitantly.

"Good night, Nicola," he replied, waiting for her door to close before he continued his work.

* * *

><p>Nicola woke to pitch blackness. She sat up, looking blindly around her – she didn't know where she was. She swung her legs quickly out of the unfamiliar bed, but the sheets were tangled together – unbalanced, she fell to the cold floor with a cry of pain, knocking over something with a clatter as she landed.<p>

Barely a second had passed when the door swung open. The silhouette of a man was in the threshold. He was lit dimly from behind and holding a sword –

Middle Earth – Rohan – _Eomer_, she remembered abruptly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stepping into the room with his sword at the ready, his eyes sweeping over every corner before settling on her, sprawled on the floor in one of his tunics.

"I'm sorry, I just – I woke up and it was dark -"

He looked down at her, clearly surprised by her actions. "And you didn't think to simply light a candle?"

There had been a lit candle on her bedside table when she had gone to bed. She had blown it out to sleep – but how was one meant to light a candle without matches or a lighter? "I don't know how," she said meekly, feeling stupid.

He exhaled heavily and walked back into his room. She heard the sound of his sword being sheathed and him rummaging around for something. In the light from his room she saw that it was her bedside table she had knocked over. She untangled her legs from the blanket, put the table back in its original place, picked up the candle which had rolled across the room and then sat sheepishly down on the bed.

Then Eomer was back, holding a lit candle of his own and a small cylindrical box. He was still dressed only in a pair of trousers, the candlelight playing over a vast expanse of golden muscle and a network of scars. Once again, Nicola found herself looking away and desperately trying to cool her burning cheeks by willpower alone.

He placed his candle on her bedside table, took the extinguished one from her hand and squatted down.

"Watch," he said. He uncapped the box, pulling out a small cloth, a piece of flint and some metal. Laying the material on the surface of her bedside table, he took the flint and metal in hand.

"You strike the iron with the flint like _this_ -" he said, demonstrating the quick motion "-to form sparks, which catch light when they fall on the charred linen." Sure enough, the cloth was burning with a tiny flame where the sparks had landed. He held the burning cloth up to the candle wick and it quickly flared, further illuminating the room.

Eomer extinguished the cloth by folding it back over itself and placed everything back into the box, which he then shoved into her hand. He picked up his candle and walked back towards the door.

"Thank you," she said after him, realising that she had just woken him from his first sleep in what was most likely days.

He paused in the doorway and then glanced briefly over his shoulder. "You're welcome," he said, his voice suprisingly soft.

* * *

><p><strong>So, 25,000 words later and we have only just finished Nicola's first day in Rohan! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)<strong>

**End of chapter question … if you could visit one place in Middle Earth, where would it be and why? **

**Don't forget to review!**


End file.
